


Halcyon and on and on

by TheKnittingLady



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: F/M, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 18:33:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 35
Words: 63,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKnittingLady/pseuds/TheKnittingLady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when you fall in love with a myth?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them.
> 
> \- Galileo Galilei

**Chapter one**

**Jerry's Place  
Washington DC**

**Spencer**

The nice thing about coming to Jerry's Place, Spencer thought, was that he didn't have to explain.

He was rather used to being self-contained. Over the years he had learned that if you trusted someone, if you opened up to them and started to care about them, they generally would leave you. His father, Ethan, Elle and Gideon; but JJ and Emily were of an entirely different class at the moment. He could understand Emily leaving, to escape from Doyle, and he could understand JJ not telling him, telling secrets like that to an addict is generally too big a risk to take. But they hadn't even given him a thought through all this. If even one of them had said "Keep an eye on Spence, he's lost a lot of people and you know what could happen" he would have felt better about the whole deal. But no, JJ let him cry on her couch for ten weeks straight, mourning the loss of a very close friend, all the while playing online Scrabble with said same friend, chatting with her every night, and not even thinking what it might do to him. Yes, maybe he was just a loose end, but didn't even a loose end deserve a good tying off?

See if he trusts them again. And, unfortunately, that had to extend to the rest of them team. If those two could do it, two he never thought capable, then anyone could.

At this point the loneliness, the inability to trust, to open, felt like it had sunken into his bones. The ache sometimes, he ached, pulled down with weariness and exhaustion. But, conversely, that made it easier to maintain the surface level of trust that was needed to do the job they did. He couldn't tell them any of his secrets, didn't dare, not anymore, but he knew they would have his back. They had to keep their walking computer alive, after all. And if they knew nothing of his private life then there would be no reason to think of him as anything other than a valuable walking computer, a thing which deserved protection.

He was still considering leaving the team.

If he could just find a teaching job that paid him as much as the BAU did he'd take it in a heartbeat. He could teach and do research and not even have to pretend to have a surface level of trust in anyone. He could go home every night and turn to the only source of comfort he'd ever found. So long as he was careful no one in academia would care if he stuck a needle in his arm or not.

Better not to think about that. Thinking about the sweet heat and painless calm and overall pleasure only made the ache in his bones worse. So did thinking that a drug was the closest friend and lover he'd ever had. Or that he'd had to shoot the man who shared that pleasure with him. He wondered, sometimes, what it would have been like if Tobias had just turned that needle back onto himself, if he had gotten both of them high that day. Yes, he might have died in that shed, no food, no water, no treatment for his injuries, but it might have felt a lot like love.

In addition to being a decorated veteran of the DC Metropolitan police force, Jerry MacGrudder had done two things with his life. One, after he retired, was to open a very traditional cop bar in DC. Dark wood, badges and news clippings and such for décor, a tendency toward lots of beer over anything mixed. Given that his other achievement had been starting the Beltway Clean Cops group everyone had wondered why he became a bar owner as a second career. "I never had a problem with booze." He'd tell them. "I can't stand the taste myself." So he now had a bar, a place that could be a refuge in times of need. And tonight Spencer needed that, as he had more and more since last summer.

As soon as he settled into the quiet back booth Jerry came over with the pot of remarkably good coffee he kept on hand for his personal enjoyment, and a full sugar bowl. "Rough day, kid?" he asked as he poured.

Rough day, Spencer thought, polite euphemism for are you thinking about finding a dealer. "Yeah, it has been." He replied, polite euphemism for yes, I really want to tonight. I let myself be vulnerable at work, and I realized I shouldn't have done that, and it scared me and saddened me and now I'd really like to feel good again, so I probably shouldn't be alone.

"Ah, right," Jerry left the sugar bowl with the coffee and a spoon. Not a little cup full of packets, about the third time he came here that had been replaced by a half pint mason jar full of sugar that he could spoon in as he liked. Jerry then reached up and tightened the second bulb in the sconce over the booth, doubling the light and making it easier to read. Then he headed back to the kitchen, and a few minutes later came back out with a bowl of stew and a basket of crackers. He left those and then headed back to the bar. He didn't have to say anything, Spencer thought, it was almost better that he didn't. But those simple, honest gestures, sugar, light, supper, spoke volumes. I like you kid, it said, and I'm here to support you while you fight this. Stay as long as you need, I'm here.

It mattered more than he could possibly imagine.

He pulled off his coat, loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves and pulled out the research needed for the paper he was working on, ready to dive into both that and the bowl of stew before him when he sensed someone coming up to the booth. "Is this seat taken?" asked a familiar, male voice. Spencer looked up and shook his head, prompting Dave Rossi to sit down opposite him. "You don't seem like the bar type. I'm guessing you're a friend of Jerry's."

Spencer nodded. He had no idea how much he could tell here. "Yeah, we…"

"Have common interests?" Rossi nodded. "Jerry's, uh, movie club has been a fixture in the DC cop community for a while now."

Dammit. "Who told you?"

"No one, directly; when you got upset with JJ the other day I asked Hotch what was going on. He said it was nothing, something involving a past case in Georgia. I figured it had to be before my time, so I went looking. Garcia isn't the only one who can use a computer."

"It's not in the case file."

Rossi chuckled. "Why do you people think I'm not good at this? I read the incident report and Emily's notes from interviewing Hankel's sponsor and put it together." He settled back as Jerry brought him some coffee. "So?"

Spencer could tell from how he asked the question. Part of him rankled that Rossi was asking, but as a team member he really did have a right to the reassurance. And he was proud, as much as it hurt to deny himself at times. "Four years, seven months, thirteen days; minus surgery for being shot, but not after I left the hospital," which he had been told, did not count, not if there was a medical need.

"Good. That's good." Spencer thought he could…no, he did detect a warm note of pride in the older man's voice. That wasn't something he had expected, but it was heartening. "Now I won't feel bad that you didn't drink my wine. I will say you hide this well."

Spencer poked at his stew a bit more. "Thank you. I did have a taste; it was a good match to the meal." One sip out of curiosity then no more. Like Jerry, alcohol had never been an issue for him and he didn't want it to become one. "Maybe too well, JJ didn't even realize what I was doing."

"Staying at her place to avoid…other options?" Spencer nodded. Rossi sighed. "Well, two days ago I would have said that they were doing what had to be done, and they did a very professional job of it. But if they were aware…."

It was a question. "They were." JJ, Emily, Hotch, they all knew he had a problem. They had been through it back then, only Rossi wasn't on the team at the time.

"…then it should have been considered during the poorly named clean-up phase of the op." Rossi half-chuckled, "If it's any consolation I should have been cleaned-up as well."

Spencer frowned. "I thought you knew? You've been acting like you knew."

"Why do you people persist in thinking I can't do this job? I figured it out."

"Oh." Well if anyone could have it would be Rossi.

"They should have considered that, given my experience. They also should have found a way to shut Morgan down and distract Garcia. But after what was said on the way back from Boise…"

So Rossi had heard it too, "CheetoBreath?"

Rossi sighed and shook his head. "That was foolish of them. Witness protection means no contact, surely they remembered that from when Haley was in. If it's any help, Hotch didn't know."

"It is." It was only Emily and JJ then. "Emily said I should be upset because I only lost one person, while she lost her entire family. Except she didn't, she only lost the ones who…." Spencer sighed. "I thought we were family."

"I know." Rossi sounded just as regretful. "Look, don't let it get to you, it's over with now."

"Yeah, but how do you trust them again? Not in the field, I mean…."

"With the clean-up?" Rossi nodded. "They have to earn that back. They should know that."

"And if they don't?"

"Not your problem."

"Does Morgan know?" Did he overhear as well?

"I don't think so. He was busy with Garcia, trying to fix what you did to his phone." Rossi did smile, finally. "I almost wish the prank war hadn't ended. Not for this."

Spencer shrugged. "I'm not up to it right now."

"Like I said, don't let it get to you. We're still a team." Rossi finished his coffee, slid out of the seat to go. "Look, you ever need a couch other than JJ's…"

Spencer nodded. It was a generous offer, but he was not going to go to his hero's couch to avoid getting high. "Thank you."

"Right, see ya tomorrow."

**The Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle  
Washington DC**

**Rossi**

St. Matthew the Apostle, Rossi thought as he looked up at the artwork, patron saint of Civil Servants. He seemed like the right one to go to for this. He put a twenty in the donation slot, lit one of the candles they would keep going for a solid month, and settled himself in the pew, and looked up at the image there.

One doesn't actually pray to a saint, he recalled, one prays to God. But much like you might ask a friend to pray for you, you can ask a saint to intercede on your behalf, the idea being that being dead they're less likely to be distracted and being unusually good while alive God was more likely to listen to them. So he wasn't actually here to pray to St. Matthew, he was here to ask St. Matthew to help him out or, more specifically, to help a friend.

"I've got a problem." He said in the quiet of the chapel. "I've got this kid on my team, brilliant kid, mind like you wouldn't believe. But more than that he's dedicated, works hard, always has your back, will not stop until the truth gets out. I've seen him willing to work his own father over just to get at who killed a known pedophile, simply to get the truth out. He gives new meaning to the kind of guy you're supposed to help out.

I just found out tonight that he's been fighting his own demons for a while now. He didn't take them on; one of the bad guys forced it on him. But he's been fighting it, and fighting hard, and I'm proud of him. But I'm also worried. Our team is…well, we have problems. We're trying to knit it all back together, but it's not easy. This shouldn't have happened. Now he's doing this on top of fighting his own demons. And he doesn't have any real support, I've got family, Morgan has family, Hotch has Haley's family still behind him, Garcia has Kevin for better or for worse, but all he has is his Mom and she's got problems of her own. Now, given all that it's probably understandable, but I can feel him pulling back. He's got one foot out the door already, and I'm afraid that if he does go he'll let the demons win.

He needs guidance. He's missing something, I think. It's like he's destined for something bigger, something personal that will lift him up and help him, I just don't know what it is. I'd send him to ask, but he's not the type. So I'm asking you to put in a word with the big guy on his behalf, please. We could use the help on this one."

Rossi waited a moment, but nothing was forthcoming. It was never that easy, was it.

With a sigh he got up and went home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**BAU Headquarters  
Quantico, VA**

**Spencer**

A few days later there was a delivery made late at night to the BAU. A slender package, not large, obviously a work of art, was delivered to one David Rossi. It was received by someone on the night shift, or so believed, for it was waiting for Garcia to see it up first thing. It bore no notice, as it was not the first time that Rossi had art delivered to his office. In fact, once they arrived, word got around and the resident geeks had to come stick their heads in to see the unveiling. "So, what is it this time?" Emily Prentiss asked him.

"What is what this time?" Rossi replied

"The artwork, what did you get?" She invited herself in, with her fellow art lover right behind, and settled on his couch.

"If you're going to bring actual Renaissance art to the office, you can at least let us look." Spencer added, then immediately regretted it. Hell, he even regretted coming up here, he should have waited until after Emily had a look, he still didn't want to share.

"I haven't bought anything recently." Rossi told them. "I just have the angel up there." He nodded to the art on his wall.

"Then what's that?" Emily pointed to the wrapped package on the far side of his desk.

Rossi picked it up, knowing that it had already been well and thoroughly handled. "I didn't order this." He replied. "It just has my name on it, and the department, not a shipping label."

Spencer and Emily looked at each other, then wordlessly pulled blue gloves from their pockets and pulled them on. Emily passed a pair to Rossi. "Here, just in case."

"Thanks," he pulled the gloves on, and then very carefully began opening the painting. "And a good call it was. Contact the Art Crime Unit; tell Garcia they're going to want to ask her a few questions."

"Why, what is it?" Spencer asked as Emily went for the phone. He already made the mistake of letting her know he was interested, now he might as well ask.

Rossi carefully pulled back the paper to reveal a small, very old drawing. It was of a lovely young woman with thick curls and some elaborate hair dressing. Her eyes were closed, as if she was sleeping or perhaps weeping, perhaps for her lost love. She wasn't exactly classically pretty, Spencer thought, but there was something about her that took your breath away. "Who is she?"

"Mary Magdalene, as drawn by da Vinci," Rossi told him

He just stood there for a moment. The more he looked at the drawing the more he found it immeasurably beautiful, but it would never do to let any of his colleagues know. He just wasn't ready to feel that vulnerable again. He didn't know if he would ever feel ready to feel that vulnerable again. Given his need to be careful it took a moment for the coin to drop. "Wait, Leonardo da Vinci? You mean…."

"I mean if this is as real as I think it is it would count as priceless. It was also recently in the possession of the National Italian Museum in Florence. The Palazzo Pitti, I believe."

"You mean someone stole this from a museum in Florence, Italy and shipped it here?"

"Delivered, and possibly before the Museum even knew it was missing."

Well that one left Spencer blinking. "Why?"

Rossi just looked at him. "I have no idea."

**Jerry's Place  
Washington DC**

This time Spencer didn't come to help avoid getting high. This time he just didn't want to cook for himself. Besides, it was spaghetti night; Jerry wasn't Rossi, but his sauce was still good.

"Rough night, kid?"

"Um, not so much, I just like your cooking."

That set Jerry off laughing. "You need a girl, kid, someone to go home to at night, to cook for you."

Spencer just chuckled. "I'm not exactly prize catch material, Jerry."

The older man just shook his head. "You forget, I collect clippings about my regulars."

"So?"

"So I have a back copy of certain gossip rag stashed behind the counter. I kinda didn't figure you wanted that kind of notoriety."

Gossip rag. What?...oh. "Lila?"

Jerry chuckled again. "A woman like that has better judgment than either of us."

"Lila was just suffering from a bad case of transference. Besides, that was before….." Before I became an addict. Maybe I wouldn't have if I'd have said yes.

"Lila wanted in your pants." Jerry shook his head. "The right girl would understand. She'd expect you to stick with it, but she would understand. Just like my Mae." Mae, his wife of a life time, gone six years from cancer, but Spencer knew Jerry still loved her, and was still faithful, much like Hotch. It was something he deeply respected. He looked down at the pile of books. "What are you studying now?" Jerry asked.

"Mary Magdalene. It's kind of an interesting story; someone stole a drawing of her by Leonardo da Vinci from a museum in Florence, Italy and delivered it to the unit last night."

"Why the hell did they do that?" Jerry asked.

"Not a clue, the other interesting part is how. The museum swears there's no sign anyone breached their security, there's no record of it being shipped anywhere, and no record of a delivery. They didn't even spot anything on the security cams; it just showed up at the front desk this morning."

"Wow. You got a mystery there."

"Anyway I don't really know anything about Mary Magdalene, so I thought I'd do some research."

"Heh, my Mae was always interested in her. Said she was the classic example of how women were shut out of history."

"How so?" Spencer asked before heading into the plate of spaghetti in front of him.

"Well, you look at the Bible. She's listed as a follower of Christ, right? One of the women who came to his tomb, right? And whenever they list off the women they list her first. When they listed off the guys they list Peter first, and he was the first pope, so she must have been important too, right? But then later on the Church starts calling her a whore, and they don't even think of putting her gospels in the Bible."

Spencer blinked at him. "I didn't know she wrote a Gospel?"

"Didn't you ever read any of the apocrypha?" When Spencer shook his head Jerry scowled. "Well they're not popular in the academic world. Look at me Mae, three PhD's and I have to school him. Hang on." He made a check of the bar customers then lumbered off to the office a moment, coming back with a book. "Here ya go. I'd say bring it back but knowing you you'll read it all before I close."

"Um, probably. Why did the Church start calling her a prostitute?"

"Eat first. Who knows? Mae said it was because male dominated society needed to feel superior somehow so they put the women down, but she was an old-time feminist from San Francisco. She said they were afraid of women's sexuality so they had to discredit her."

Now that didn't quite hold together. "Why would her sexuality have anything to do with it?"

"Well, according to Mae she was what they called a Temple Healer, worked in one of the Roman temples. According to legend, men used to go there after the wars to get their souls put back to rights. Near as I could tell from the way she described it, they were treating those guys for PTSD, treatment which included all kinds of physical goodies, up to and including bumping uglies."

Spencer could feel his eyes jitter as a connection fired in his brain. "I recall a research study ongoing with the VA, using MDMA as a PTSD treatment." MDMA, also know as Ecstasy. "I wonder if there are parallels."

"Who knows? Anyway, Mae figured that the church got all its money promising people that they could get them into an afterlife where there is no suffering. Stop suffering in this life and there goes the cash stream. So they want people to think that Christ suffered more than anyone, set the bar high, not that some girl was helping him cope with what he saw coming. If they thought that maybe they'd figure out how, life would get better, and there goes the money."

"What do you think?"

Jerry shrugged. "Way I see it, God sent his son down to experience being human, that's a big part of being human. And whatever he did before he got there, he gave it all up to die on the cross, so that all still holds for me."

"Interesting, but that doesn't explain why a picture of Mary Magdalene was sent to the BAU."

"Theology I can help you with. Thinking like the bad guys, that's your department." With that Jerry left Spencer to the books and headed over to tend to the bar.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter three**

**Spencer**

_It was warm_

_Wherever he was, it was warm. The room was filled with a warm mist, in places it was softly scented, a scent that made his head feel a bit muffled and light. They were burning something, Spencer realized, something herbal perhaps, that induced a mild high. It helped ease his feeling of burden, and he did feel burdened, dragged down all over with the weight of a thousand cares. I just want this over, he thought; I can't carry this alone any more._

" _This way."_

_He looked around for the voice but couldn't see anyone. There were other people in the room, he realized, it was a large cavern and quite full, but the voices came in and out of the mist, every so often he would see movement. Yet it felt private, like this small corner was all for him and no one was paying him any attention at all._

_Except for the woman holding his hand._

_They reached the edge of the water, for there was water in here he realized, a large pool and perhaps a waterfall, or several. She put down the basket she was carrying, and began helping him out of his clothing. He was wearing his vest, he realized, dressed for work right down to the badge on his belt, as if he had just come from a case. "No wonder I'm tired." He murmured._

" _Let me help." She murmured as she went to work on the buckles._

_Slowly they peeled him out of his clothes. Vest, tie, shirt, undershirt. When he was bare to the waist she let him finish while she fetched one of the bottles from his basket, began smoothing some kind of oil over his shoulders. It was warm, he realized, and not just from the heat coming off the water. The oil might be drugged, he thought, as he toed out of his shoes and socks and let his gun and pants fall, and I really don't care. I think I'm quite done._

_When he was naked he slipped easily off the rough, natural edge and into the hot, mineral water, finding a comfortable rock to relax on. He'd never been naked in front of a woman before, remembered being in the pool with Lila, how magical that had been. He looked over at his companion, getting a sense of hair the color of copper pennies, all curls and glinting in the light of the candles everywhere. "Coming in?"_

" _In a moment," she passed him a glass of wine, and went back to working all the knots of tension out of his neck and shoulders._

_The wine was light and delicate for a red, almost sweet, cool and rich on the back of his throat. It wasn't just alcohol; there was the taste of some kind of herbs in there as well. "What are you doing to me?" he asked as his head drooped forward as the tension left him._

" _Healing you," she replied. He had a sense of something white and light moving behind him, turned and realized it was the dress she had been wearing sliding to the floor. She was achingly beautiful. She slipped easily into the water, almost swam up into his arms, her warm curves pressed against him. "Tell me." She quietly encouraged._

_He could, he realized. He could tell her everything and anything, about every case, about every care, about his past and his present and his hopes for the future. He could tell her anything at all and none of it would ever go past her ears. She would join in his laughter and dry his tears, and later she would feed him and invite him into her body and when his soul was eased and his every hunger satiated she would whisper him to sleep in her arms. And when he woke she would be gone, which wouldn't matter because he would be whole again. But for now all that mattered was that she was right here, could see him somehow. That he wasn't alone. "I don't know where to start."_

_She wrapped her arms around him, pressed a kiss into his shoulder. "Start by waking up."_

**The Ponce de Leon Co-Op**   
**4514 Connecticut Ave NW**   
**Washington DC**   
**Apartment #512**

Spencer's eyes snapped open. He was half aroused, still muzzy headed and wondering what the hell woke him and could he shoot them. That was one hell of a dream, he thought. What did wake me? Did someone just call my name?

A moment later his alarm clock went off.

Of course.

**BAU Headquarters  
Quantico, VA**

**Rossi**

Three days later, the day after they came back from their most recent case, Rossi had an unexpected visitor. "Hey, Tom, how's it going?" It was perhaps disrespectful to call Bishop Thomas Benton 'Tom', but when you went to grade school, high school, and through the military together, you get certain privileges. "Please tell me you're not here on business."

Bishop Benton sighed after he sat. "I'm afraid I am, Dave." He told him. "We've got a problem, and I could dearly use your help."

"It's never a good thing when a man in your profession comes looking for help from a man in mine." Rossi commented. "What can I do for you?"

"One of the priests in my Diocese, a Father Michael Culpepper, died recently. He was a young man, thirty-six, fairly new to the priesthood, but good, devout. He was found in his bed in the rectory by his Deacon last week, he'd been ill and when they found him he'd slipped into a coma. He died later that day. They did and autopsy, and found that he'd been poisoned, arsenic."

"Ouch," Rossi winced, that was a hard way to go. "Do the locals have any ideas?"

"Not yet, but I honestly haven't told them the entire story. Father Michael went to see a doctor in town, Jerry Robbins; he gave any member of the clergy a rate. Doc Robbins told me that Mark Ducan died the same way last year. He was also a priest in my Diocese, had been for roughly forty years; and two years before that Peter Bentworth, then two years before that Paul Belleci, all priests."

Rossi blinked. "Someone's been killing the priests in your Diocese; any of them from the same church?"

Bishop Benton shook his head. "Nope, all of them, except Michael, had been at their own churches for decades"

"So they never crossed paths?"

"Only one place, the Poor Clares of the Primitive Observance; it's a cloistered community, up in the hills west of here, been around since 1801. After one died, the next started saying Sunday Mass for the nuns. The nuns up there are completely enclosed; they don't even come out for medical care. Doc Robbins makes house calls. According to him at least four of the nuns have slipped into a coma and died over the past eight years, all with the same symptoms. He didn't think much of it at the time because they were all elderly, as were the first three priests. But Father Michael was too young, and so there was an inquest and now this."

Rossi settled back. "You think one of the nuns is a serial killer, a poisoner?"

Bishop Benton sighed again. "I don't know what to think. But I do know that the local sheriff knows about as much about religion as the local stump pastor tells him, he wouldn't know a cloistered nun from a penguin. We're talking twenty women, anywhere from older to elderly, all of whom missed the 21st century and much of the 20th. I understand that there has to be an investigation, I just want it done gently, and with some respect. And I trust that anyone working with you can handle that."

Rossi nodded. "Come down to the conference room; tell my team what you told me. We'll see what we can do."

* * *

After a few words with Hotch they assembled around the table. They listened to the story Bishop Benton had to tell them. "This is definitely a different one." Morgan pointed out.

"The problem is that we haven't been invited." Hotch replied.

"I can speak to the sheriff." Bishop Benton told them. "Given how tight his budget has been, I have no doubt that he'd appreciate the help."

"There's something about all this I don't understand." Emily said. "If we're looking at a nun, she's not going to fit any of the known categories for serial killers, let alone female serial killers. She's not a black widow or looking to make any kind of profit, she's not a sexual predator or part of a team, revenge is unlikely, and while Angel of Death is a possibility, Father Michael was a young man, that doesn't fit. You can say it's a question of sanity, but if she had been succumbing to a mental illness someone in a community that small and close would have noticed; so why these eight people at this time?"

"We'll have to see what else these eight people have in common." Morgan told her.

"Nine." Spencer said.

They all looked over. "How are you getting that?' Morgan asked.

By way of an answer Spencer looked over at Bishop Benton. "Bishop, have you been feeling well lately? Have you experienced any headaches lately? Confusion? Unexplained drowsiness?"

Bishop Benton chuckled. "Yeah, it's called getting old."

"Maybe not," Spencer replied. He pointed to the Bishop's hands. "I noticed the white stripes on your nails. You don't look like you get manicures regularly, so unless you're undergoing chemotherapy or perhaps are suffering from cirrhosis of the liver…."

"Not that I know of, my liver was fine with my last physical." The Bishop told him.

"…then it's a fairly good sign of ongoing arsenic poisoning. You might be victim number nine."

Bishop Benton looked down at his nails in shock, then up at his old friend. "Maybe I ought to get checked out before we head up there."

Rossi nodded, "Probably a good plan."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter four**

**Spencer**

_He was more relaxed than he had ever been. Utterly content to let the beautiful woman at his side guide him down the dimly lit hallway. "Why does it have to be so far?" Spencer complained mildly. "You should put the beds right by the water." He really didn't want to be moving so much. I'm high, he realized as he leaned against the wall to steady himself and pulled his companion into his arms, just a little and I don't know on what, but it feels marvelous. I must be, it's the only way I can feel this good, this comfortable in my own skin._

" _We tried that." She replied, laughing as she let herself be pulled. "The heat ruined the food."_

" _I don't think I'm that kind of hungry." He replied, although now that he thought of it he was suddenly starving for what he knew they would have, fruits, breads, cheeses, wine, all of it the sweetest, the most satisfying. But his companion was right here; and bare to the waist, he realized, and so utterly beautiful. This has never been this easy, he thought, this has never felt this right. But then it doesn't matter how awkward I get, she cares enough not to turn away._

" _Really?" They were at the entrance of the dining hall, and she snagged a piece of fruit from a passing tray, held it up to his lips. It was an apple, crunchy and sweet, the juice like honey down his throat. Still, he rather thought her kisses were what would satisfy the most now, and he cupped the back of her head, leaned down to taste…_

_Something reached out of the mist and pulled her away._

" _No." He tried to look through the swirling, shimmering clouds but could see nothing. In every direction it seemed to be growing thicker. Something laughed the laugh of a thousand UnSubs. "NO!"_

**Convent of The Poor Clares of the Primitive Observance  
Rural Maryland**

The first thing they noticed as they crested the hill was the high, stone wall. It appeared to completely surround the convent property. Inside it they could see more of the same kind of farmland they had been passing, or so they thought, and something large and green, even from here. "I assume the Bishop has the gate code?" Morgan asked.

"No," Emily replied. "We're parking outside the perimeter. The nuns don't allow vehicles on their property; they say it disturbs the contemplative atmosphere. He has the key, though; we're just going to walk in."

"And we don't need a warrant?"

"The Diocese owns the property. The Bishop can allow us in as the official representative."

Why did he always get the back seat? Spencer peered forward over their shoulders and tried to stifle a yawn.

"What's the matter, kid, didn't sleep last night?" Morgan asked.

"Not really. Weird dreams," he'd had the same dream several nights running, the bath, the girl, the walk toward the dining hall, and all of a sudden she was gone and he was searching. They'd pulled him from his sleep, and he hadn't dared go back.

"Just tell me there was a naked woman involved." Morgan said with a teasing grin. It took Spencer too long to answer, as he tried to sort it. Yes, and also more or less, he seemed to recall they both had a towel or something around the waist…. "I'll take that as a yes." Morgan continued to tease, "That's called normal."

"Awww, our boy is growing up." Emily joined in. "Pretty soon he's going to be leaving the nest, heading off to college."

That one was actually worth laughing at.

When they pulled up at the gate the two SUV's were met by the Bishop and two SUV's from the local sheriff's department. Hotch made the usual introductions. "Thank you for coming out." The Sheriff said, "I admit, this one is beyond us. Anything you need we'll be glad to provide." He'd brought along four deputies, two of which were female.

Hotch looked over the assembled group. "When we get inside, Bishop, I'd like you to ask the Mother Superior to assemble all the Sisters in one location, the chapel or a dining hall. JJ, Emily, you each take one of the female deputies and start interviewing the Sisters. Sheriff, if you would take your other two men and make sure none of the Sisters leave the location, the rest of my team will start going through the convent, to see if we can find any evidence that points to a killer or of the primary crime scene."

Spencer had been listening to all this, but his attention was distracted by the wall itself. It was clearly old, probably dated to the building of the convent 200 years before. But some of it was new. "Bishop," he called over, and then pointed to the top of the wall, "Broken glass and barbed wire?"

"Mother Marian requested it about eight years ago. She said they were getting harassed by some of the local kids climbing over the wall."

The Sheriff looked over. "You didn't say anything."

The Bishop shrugged. "There was no need. We didn't have any way of knowing which kids, and the reinforcement of the wall took care of it."

As they started through the large oak and iron gates, something else caught Spencer's eye. He lingered just long enough for Morgan to come over. "What did you find?"

Spencer pointed to the side of what looked like a small gatehouse. "It looks like they used to have a foundling wheel." He said, pointing to the area that looked different.

"A what?"

"A foundling wheel, see, right about here there would have been a wooden wheel, much like a barrel with a cutout in the side." He pointed to the bricked over opening, just above the stone ledge. The bricks were clearly different from the stonework of the rest of the wall. "Mothers who couldn't raise their babies would put the child in the barrel, turn it to the inside of the convent, and then ring this bell so the nuns would know that a child was down here." He pointed to the large, iron bell hanging off the wall. "It looks like this repair work was relatively recent, not more than ten years."

"Well, you said it was wood, maybe it finally rotted."

"Maybe," Spencer took another look. "Too bad, it's a fascinating detail that speaks to the role of a place like this in the community before modern times."

"Yeah, yeah, come on." They followed the group up the steep hill, only to run into them at the top. What caught their attention was utterly clear. "Whoa." Morgan said.

It was a tree.

Specifically it was an apple tree. The biggest apple tree, or any kind of tree, that any of them had ever seen. "That thing is huge." Morgan said. "It has to be, what, forty feet high?"

"More like fifty." Spencer pointed out, "And at least that wide at the canopy." He moved closer, almost drawn to it, skirting around the massive trunk. "And it's still full of fruit, look." He pointed up to where the branches were bowed, heavy with apples. "A tree of this size and age that's still producing is rare." He could sense the others moving on, but he had to get closer, he swore it was calling to him. He stepped further around it and a low-hanging branch very nearly clipped him on the head. It almost dropped an apple into his hand. "It's completely engulfed this corner of the building," he pointed out to whoever was listening. "The trunk is actually growing around the walls. It's almost like it's trying to get inside." Without thinking he lifted up the apple he was given and took a bite.

For a moment he couldn't breathe.

Honey, he thought, it tastes like honey, just like the apples in my dream. Honey and flowers and then the most impossible rich sweetness he had ever tasted in his life. As it ran down his throat it almost burned, and then the warmth spread, soothing every ache, easing every care. He looked up at the tree and for a moment he could almost swear it sighed and was happy at last.

"Hey, Reid, come on." Morgan called to him.

He didn't want to go, Spencer realized. He wanted to climb up into that tree and nestle into the warmth of its branches and gorge himself on the sweet fruit until he could have no more, and even then he might never have enough. I thought Dilaudid was bad, he thought, I may have just found my next addiction, farm fresh apples. He took another bite, and then a third as he reluctantly moved away, each one as sweet and perfect as the last. But as he turned for one more look something took a bit of the sweet away. "Morgan," he called over quietly. "Rossi did say they were of the Poor Clares sect, didn't he?"

"That's what he said. Why?" Morgan came back around.

"Poor Clares don't use electricity."

"So?"

Spencer pointed up on the roof. There, where no one was likely to see unless they were quite tall and marveling at a huge apple tree, was a solar panel. A closer inspection revealed that the wiring had been carefully covered and concealed and wound down until it entered the building near ground level.

"All right," Morgan said. "As we go looking we ought to see where it goes. Come on."

As he finished the apple Spencer was already regretting the end of it. Coming down is always the worse part, he thought, as he tucked the core into his bag for disposal later and followed Morgan inside.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter five**

**Convent of The Poor Clares of the Primitive Observance  
Rural Maryland**

**Spencer**

As it turned out no one needed to say anything. All the sisters were already assembled in the chapel, already praying. Twenty or so women in loose, grey tunics, white wimples and black veils, all down on their knees, their rosaries in hand. As they quietly entered at the back one of them, this one only in her sixties at most, got up from the front and came down the aisle to meet them. "This is Mother Marian." The Bishop said by way of an introduction. He introduced the Sheriff and his people, then the team, as usual starting with Hotch. She seemed to get more concerned, perhaps even defensive as the team was introduced. When the Bishop got around to Dr. Reid Mother Marian looked at him for a moment, then her eyes first flared with recognition, burned with hate, and then died with resignation. As they moved on Morgan stepped closer. "You know her?"

Spencer shook his head, "Never met her before." It was rather disconcerting; he could see no reason for her reaction.

As JJ, Emily and the female officers started the interviews, and the Sheriff and his men stood guard at the chapel, the rest of the team split up to cover the various buildings in the compound, all of which were connected by the actual cloisters, or covered corridors. "What are we looking for again?" Morgan asked as he and Spencer headed for the dormitory.

"Rat poison," Spencer supplied, helpfully. "Or anything else that looks like it might apply to a serial killer."

"I do not like this." Morgan muttered. "There is something creepy about this place."

"You're probably just reacting to the number of times gothic architecture has been used in horror movies." Spencer told him. "You're conditioned to expect spooky happenings in places that look like this."

"That means you're probably enjoying this."

"Actually, yes," the architecture was lovely, and the contemplative atmosphere was soothing. It was like stepping back into medieval times, a place that could have been the setting for one of his mother's books.

What they found in the dormitory was interesting. The Poor Clares practiced strict poverty, personal possessions were discouraged, and so every sister had only a few things in her private possession, including a small collection of books. Each had a few well loved bits of fiction or poetry, and, strangely, enough text and reference books to teach a small class on any given subject. They found geography, history, English grammar, foreign languages, even mathematics and the sciences. "Is that a set of books on calculus?" Morgan asked in one room.

"Yes. We used that text at CalTech." Spencer replied, lightly touching the last in the painfully neat shelf.

"Why?"

"I have no idea."

They moved on through the buildings on this side, into a very primitive toilet room, spotless of course but would allow almost no privacy, and past that a room with long, stone troughs, one wide and deep and low, the other narrow and shallow and high. "What's this place?" Morgan asked.

"It looks like it's the lavatorium." Spencer replied. "The bathing room, literally. See," he turned a tap on the wall and water began to pour in to the larger trough. He nodded to some plain, linen dresses hanging on the wall. "They probably wear those to bathe, and change under them. It's supposed to discourage lustful thoughts by not allowing them to actually look at their bodies, a rift off the inherent sinfulness of Eve. It's actually a modification of an ancient Roman design."

Morgan stuck his hand under the tap, "As are cold baths? That's got to be frigid in the winter. And I don't see a place for a fire."

Spencer turned off the tap and shook his head. "No, if this place was built to traditional design the only fires would be in the kitchen, infirmary and a warming-room. Suffering is supposed to bring you closer to God."

"Well, I have to respect those ladies. They are certainly living up to their beliefs."

Before they moved on Spencer took one last look. It was almost a perversion of his dream. Instead of love and acceptance and comfort all this place offered was suffering and shame. He suddenly pictured his companion, huddled in folds of damp linen, trying to scrub herself with harsh, homemade soap as she shivered in the freezing water. It was so real he almost thought he was hallucinating.

"Hey kid, stop admiring the architecture." Morgan called back.

Right. Moving on.

While Spencer and Morgan had been checking out the dormitory and attached rooms and buildings Hotch and Rossi had been going through the work rooms and storage spaces on the other side. They met up in the building directly opposite the chapel, the kitchen. "What is this?" Morgan asked, peeking in to a pot.

"Probably some kind of vegetable stew," Spencer replied. "The Poor Clares believe in a perpetual Lenten fast, they don't eat meat or except for fish on special holy days, they produce all their own food on site and the morning and evening collation, or meal, cannot together equal the noontime supper. Their usual diet consists of two slices of bread with some soft cheese, fruit and barley tea morning and evening, and a starch, one or two vegetable dishes and a fruit for supper."

"It looks like a vegetable mush." Morgan pointed out.

"Well, the ladies are all elderly, and I don't believe they get dental care."

"Yeah, but come on." Morgan opened the pot and lifted and poured a ladle of something thick and grayish green. "I'm guessing more suffering."

"Probably," Spencer poked in another pot. Someone had been taking the rich, sweet apples outside and stewing them down. When Morgan wasn't looking he dared to take a taste. They had mixed some other vegetable in with the apples, something that leant it a bitter, foul tang. Cabbage, he thought, or broccoli, just to ruin the sweetness of the fruit. For a moment he thought of the meals in his dream, and he honestly thought they did this just to torture her. For a moment his heart ached.

Morgan looked over and notices, "You okay?"

"Yeah," I am imagining things, Spencer thought, "I need a vacation."

"Amen to that."

At that point Hotch and Rossi came in, followed a moment later by JJ, "Anything?" Hotch asked.

Morgan and Spencer had to shake their heads, but JJ had something. "The Bishop said that no vehicles were allowed on the grounds, but one of the nuns told me that she'd been awakened by an engine a few months back. I started asking and a number said they had also heard it, and that wasn't the first time."

"Maybe it's someone coming in from outside?" Rossi thought out loud.

"But why target the priests here?" Hotch asked in reply. "It would be easier to get to them on the outside."

"Maybe to discredit the convent?'

"Why?"

"I don't know." Rossi admitted. "Have we checked out the entire compound?"

"Not entirely," Spencer told them. "There ought to be a number of storerooms just to hold the consumables used by the nuns; probably in the cellar."

"All right," Hotch turned to JJ. "Go tell the Sheriff about the engine sounds, it may be part of an ongoing pattern of harassment which may be a part of this. We're going to go check out the cellar."

"Hey JJ," Morgan called after her. "We're not back in thirty send down a search party."

* * *

The search of the cellar took them down a narrow stair, then through a long series of dark yet tidy rooms. One after the other, root vegetables, grain, flax to weave vestments, tools, bottles, the rooms marched on. They had to use flashlights, but even those had little effect against the gloom. No, Spencer was not happy about all this dark. The further they went the more it felt like light had been deliberately banished from this place. It wasn't just absent, it was being kept out.

Finally they came to the last room. As he passed through the doorway Spencer, the tallest of the team, felt something brush his head. He jumped, maybe even cried out, but he would later swear it was understandable.

"What is it?" Hotch asked.

Spencer shone his light up to the ceiling to see what had made a try for his hair. "Roots," he replied, as he consulted his mental map. "We must be close to that apple tree."

"Okay, everyone be careful." Morgan reminded them. "That kind of damage can bring a ceiling down on top of you."

They poked through the stuff stored in this last room, old building materials from the looks of it, parts of iron fences and old barrels and bits and bobs of hardware. "There's nothing here." Morgan complained.

Later Spencer would have no idea what caught his attention. He would swear it was a draft, a cold bit of air coming from somewhere, but at the time he swore he felt unseen fingers caress his cheek. "Did you feel that?" He asked.

"Feel what?" Morgan asked in reply.

Just then they heard the faintest sound behind them.

A heartbeat later they all jumped right out of their skins. "Why are you down here?" Someone screeched. They turned to spot one of the sisters, ninety if she was a day, old and bent in her habit, glaring up at them. "You men shouldn't be down here! It's not safe! It's not safe!"

Rossi stepped forward. "It's all right, Sister, the Bishop gave us permission."

"You don't understand! It's not safe for you here! It's not safe!"

Hotch looked over. "Rossi, take her upstairs."

Rossi nodded, stepped forward, and gently and respectfully took the nun by the elbow. "Come on, Sister, we should go back to the chapel with the others."

She shook in anger and frustration, even as Rossi turned her around. "It's not safe I'm telling you! Oh, I'll pray for you! I'll pray!"

"What was that all about?' Morgan asked as Rossi led the clearly upset sister away.

"I have no idea." Hotch replied. He looked over at Spencer. "What were you saying?"

Spencer didn't answer. He'd been looking at the wall and he noticed an even crack, where the wallboards butted up against each other. It looked like the assorted stuff hanging was either on one side of the crack or the other, nothing crossed it. He reached into his bag and pulled out a lighter then flicked it alight, held it close to the crack, and watched as the flame was pulled in the direction of the crack, showing airflow. "Guys, I think this is a door." He started pulling things down, and when a collection of old feed sacks came off, they revealed a shiny modern lock.

Hotch looked at it and frowned. "I assume it's locked, which means I need to go ask for a key." He said, giving Morgan a Significant Look. Then he turned and headed back they way they'd come.

"Got it," Morgan said, as he handed his flashlight off to Spencer. "Hold this." He said as he pulled his lock pick kit out of his pocket. A few moments work and the door swung open. "Oh, hey, look Hotch, it was open." He said to no one in particular.

The room beyond had even more roots growing out of the ceiling and down the walls. One side had a small workbench, the other had something covered with a canvas tarp and the third was stone reinforced with iron. And on a small counter by the door. "Morgan," Spencer nodded at the box of rat poison.

"Well, hello." Morgan replied. "Okay, so this is the UnSub's lair; very utilitarian."

"Well, it fits with female serial killers. The murder is the end goal, they don't fantasize or take trophies and they tend to be very efficient." Spencer pointed out. He spotted something, reached up and turned on a small, electric work light just above the bench. "This must be where the solar panel goes."

Morgan moved to the work bench, started poking in the cubbies above it. "It's clean; someone has been in here recently. Why keep the poison over there if you're working here. Hey, check this out." He passed Spencer a calendar that had been marked with different colored tick marks. "What do you think it means?"

"I don't know. Is it just for this year?"

Morgan looked. "No, it looks like we have…five years here, maybe more. And what's this?" He pulled a basket out of a cubbie, "Vitamins, new bottles too, calcium, iron, Folic Acid, C, D; there's a lot here. Someone is taking their health seriously."

"That would explain why the poison is kept at a separate work space, to avoid cross-contamination." While Morgan took that side Spencer went to see what was under the cloth. What he found surprised him. "Morgan." He pulled away the tarp to reveal the squat, white barrel.

"What is that?"

"It's a liquid nitrogen shipping container." Spencer told him. "Shine your light this way." When the light was right Spencer used his phone to take photographs of the shipping labels and other identifying information. They had no cell service down here, but once up top Garcia would have no trouble tracking the container. "According to this it was delivered about two months ago, to a Marion Prestwick."

"Mother Marion?" Morgan whistled. "She just went to the top of the UnSub list. That would explain the sound of an engine, she was having this delivered."

"Yeah, but why? It's empty now." He rocked it to be sure, unwilling to open it without safety gear. As it rocked it made the shadows move, causing something else to catch his eye. He shone his light that way, and had to stop for a moment as he tried to make it all fit.

"What?" Morgan asked.

Spencer got up and moved a chair out of the way. In the center of the iron panel, that he had assumed was reinforcing the wall, was what looked like a barrel on its side, mounted half in the wall. "It's the foundling wheel." He said. "Someone must have taken it from the gatehouse and moved it into here."

"Someone, probably Mother Marion," Morgan pointed out, "But why?"

"I don't know." Spencer replied. He gave the wheel a push and it rotated easily, only squeaking the smallest bit. "It's rotating freely, so there's space on the other side. We're not up against earth like I thought." He guided the wheel in a circle again.

Morgan considered a moment. "Okay, now the poisonings make sense, she was killing anyone who got in the way of whatever she's been doing down here. But nothing else fits yet."

"I know, I…" He stopped as the rotating wheel met what felt like a gentle resistance. "Morgan." He pushed it again, felt something resilient on the other side. He pushed again and it turned easily once more.

"Maybe it just got stuck."

"No, it doesn't feel like it." He tried again and the resistance was back, again and it moved freely. This time he gave it a solid push and sent it spinning counter-clockwise as he took his hand away.

A moment later it stopped sharply, stopped for a solid moment, then spun sharply again, clockwise.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter six**

**Convent of The Poor Clares of the Primitive Observance  
Rural Maryland**

**Spencer**

They stared at the spinning foundling wheel a long moment as it slowly spun to a stop. "Reid." Morgan said, finally. "Did you do that?"

"No," there are no such things as ghosts Spencer thought, now think. Occam's Razor, when what is the simplest reason for that action. He went back to the bench and found an unused notepad and a pencil. He quickly scrawled a note, then put it, the pencil, and his flashlight into the wheel and carefully turned it, then stepped away.

"What did you write?" Morgan asked him.

"The simplest answer for why a wheel is deliberately turned is that someone is turning it." He didn't take his eyes away from the wheel. "I wrote 'Is someone in there?'"

The wheel turned slowly back. Inside was just the note.  _Yes. Help. Please._

Spencer looked up at the sheet of iron. "It's not a wall, it's a door." He started pulling stuff off and away, trying to find the lock, the handle, something. A shift of a basket revealed a solid, iron padlock, "Here."

"Hotch must still be trying to get the first key." Morgan pointed out. "She's gonna be even less likely to let this one go. That was a wood fire up in the kitchen, right?"

"Yeah, why?'

"'Cause I'm betting they chop their wood with an ax. Iron is brittle, I'll go get it and get through that lock." He headed back down the cellar.

Spencer wanted to beg him to stay, this was one creepy cellar and if the light went….but getting whoever was in there out was a first priority. It made no sense though, that first padlock was modern, it would take an average size key, easy to conceal around your neck, always handy when you had to pop down here to look after your prisoner or poison an annoying witness. This lock was huge, the key would be equally large, would be harder to carry around. And why carry two when the outer door was locked….Spencer started looking around the work bench, and sure enough, in the drawer was a large key.

Great.

He looked back down the cellar, but there was nothing but darkness. The only light was the small circle coming off the light above the workbench. "Morgan?" He called down. "Morgan!" No, he hadn't really expected a reply.

Just great.

Well, there was someone trapped who needed out, there was no choice in the matter. He unlocked the padlock, and then grasped the hasp and pulled. The door swung open, letting out the scent of apples, sweet and rich, but the light only penetrated a foot or so over the threshold. "This is the FBI." Spencer called into the darkness. "Come on out of there, you're safe."

Silence. No movement. Then, a soft, gentle voice in the darkness, "I knew you would find me." As he watched a figure slowly moved into the light, something white and flowing and his heart was in his throat….

No, it wasn't a ghost. It was a woman.

She stepped out, shielding her eyes from the brightness of the light above the workbench. She was barefoot, wearing one of the long, linen dresses they had seen upstairs. She was tall, he was taller than average, even for a male, but she would fit neatly under his chin, and even with her height he had a sense of rich curves under the voluminous folds of her gown. She was pale, yes, but with roses in her cheeks as if she had just been running through the fields behind the convent to come to him. Her long, brown curls looked like they had never been cut, hung all the way down her back, and her lips were as red and soft as fruit and when her hand came down and she looked up at him he was caught by the life in her hazel eyes. She seemed so very alive somehow, like she was burning away the darkness around her. She stood there a moment, swaying slightly in the bright light, looking up at him, then she covered her heart and she swayed all the harder. "Oh."

Uh oh, he grabbed the chair that had been in front of the door, and gently tugged her down into it. "Here, just….sit." Without thinking he pulled off his jacket and put it around her shoulders as he crouched down next to her so as not to loom. "Are you all right?"

She shook her head. "My heart is beating so fast." She told him. She pulled his jacket around her as she began to shiver. "Thank you."

She hasn't spoken to anyone in a while, he thought, that's why her voice is so soft. "Shhh, hold still," he said softly as he pulled over a bucket, over turned it so he could sit at her height. "Just sit for a moment. What's your name?" He placed a hand on her shoulder, to steady her, or so he told himself.

"Helena." She almost leaned toward him, clearly wanting the physical contact.

"I'm Spencer." He'd later wonder why he gave his first name, not his title. But at that moment he wasn't thinking right at all. His head felt packed in honeyed wool and the scent of apples had him spinning. "We're going to get you out of here."

"Of course you are." She smiled slightly. "She said you would come."

That made no sense. He was about to ask when there were footsteps and light and then Morgan was there, followed by Hotch. "Morgan told me what you found." Hotch said. "I assume you found a key."

Spencer nodded. "This is Helena." He nodded at the far wall.

Morgan stepped past, found a switch on the wall, and turned on a light in the far room. "Whoa." It was a small cell, a cot on one side, a toilet and sink in the far corner, a table and single chair in the center under the bare bulb. And hanging from the ceiling and covering the walls were the roots of the apple tree, thick and dense so no wall could be seen, a small forest hanging from the ceiling. "She's lucky this didn't come down on her head."

"She's an old friend." Helena said, very softly. She looked up at Spencer. "She said you were here."

Hotch crouched down as well, so as not to be overwhelming. "Helena, I'm SSA Aaron Hotchner, I'm with the FBI. This is Agent Morgan, and it looks like you've already met Dr. Reid. What's your last name?"

"Owens." She smiled over at Hotch, just for a moment, just enough for Spencer to realize that she had been looking at him the entire time. "Helena Owens."

"Do you know who locked you in here?"

Helena nodded, "Mother Marion."

Hotch looked over as Morgan pointed out the rat poison. "Do you know why she locked you down here?"

Helena just closed her eyes, shook her head, and slowly started listing into Spencer's shoulder. Spencer looked over at Hotch. "We should probably get her upstairs."

Hotch nodded. "Helena, do you think you can walk?"

Helena slowly stood, and they rose along with her, but she took all of three steps and down she went. Spencer managed to catch her as she went down, pulling her up in his arms, looking down at a face that was somehow almost familiar.

It felt like coming home at last.

About halfway up the stairs Spencer felt Helena come around, the rhythm of her breathing change against the hollow of his throat. Once back in the kitchen they cleaned off part of the work table so Spencer could sit her on the edge, as there wasn't a chair to be seen. He was going to move away but she caught him, leaned against him for support. In the full daylight she appeared to be no more than twenty-five, and appeared to be in perfect health, despite her long captivity. A moment after they got there Rossi came in, followed by the Bishop. "Who is this?" The Bishop asked.

"She said her name was Helena Owens." Spencer told him. "We found her locked in the cellar." He looked over at Hotch. "We should probably call for a medic, just in case."

From where she was almost nestled against him Helena looked over at the Bishop. "Hello, Father."

"Bishop, actually, Bishop Benton, how long have you been here, child?"

Helena frowned and slowly shook her head. "I don't know. I came to live with my aunt, Margaret."

As Hotch moved aside to call Garcia the Bishop sputtered over the revelation. "I…I had no idea. I've never met this person before. I swear to you." He was clearly honestly flabbergasted. "But Margaret Owens I know, or knew. She was a sister here for decades, died about eight years ago."

Rossi nodded. "She was the first we suspect died as a result of…" He looked over at Helena and let the rest of the reply hang.

Morgan looked over at him. "We found the box we were looking for outside this Helena's cell, along with something that had been shipped to Marion Prestwick. Helena also said Mother Marion locked her in there. We think Mother Marion might be the UnSub."

"But, why?" The Bishop asked as Rossi went to radio Emily and JJ, asked them to bring Mother Marion to the kitchen.

"Don't know yet." Morgan replied.

Hotch returned to the group. "Garcia is arranging for a medivac. They're going to take her to Washington Hospital Center."

Just then JJ and Emily came in. "We can't find Mother Marion." Emily said. "But she couldn't have gotten out of the complex."

They weren't alone. The elderly sister who had been down in the cellar had followed them along with another. Now the older one stood there, looking at the scene, her hands folded in her sleeves, her lips moving in prayer as the somewhat younger one gaped. "Sister Theresa, Sister Martha," the Bishop said to her. "Do you know this woman?"

Sister Martha, the younger one, was the first to respond. "Yes, it's Helena Owens, Margaret's niece. But she went off to school six years ago, I don't understand." She stepped forward, put her hand on Helena's shoulder and was not pushed away. "What are you doing here, child"

"I never left." Helena told her. Spencer could feel her swaying again; let her rest more of her weight against his side. Yes, he was almost holding her, it felt right. "Mother Marion locked me in the cellar."

Sister Theresa sighed, looked up at him, then over at the woman on the table. "I'm sorry." She said finally. "Marion entrusted it to me. It must not be allowed." And with that she pulled the gun she had been hiding and pointed it right at Spencer.

"Gun!" Morgan hollered as he tackled the elderly woman. Everyone else ducked and drew while Spencer grabbed Helena and pulled her to the floor, cushioning her with his own body and then rolling her under him to shield her. But the shot went wide, and the nun went down wailing, screaming no, that they mustn't, that it mustn't be allowed over and over again as the other sister just screamed. As the deputies pulled both away Hotch looked at them, him, and then the rest of the team. "Let's get her out of here."

"And go get our vests." Emily added. "The way this is going the Mother Superior has a hunting rifle."

The Bishop looked like he was about to protest that, but stopped. "I'm going down with you." He informed them. "I have no idea what's going on but it's my duty to see this sorted, and that starts with getting this young lady to safe harbor."

Spencer looked down at Helena under him, gently brushed the hair back from her forehead, "You all right?" She gasped a little, but nodded. He helped her get to her feet, but after a few steps she started swaying again.

"Let me get her this time." Morgan said as he stepped forward, but she pulled away, tucking into Spencer's side. "Okay," Morgan said, clearly confused.

Spencer let her lean on him, propping her up as much as he could, but it only lasted until they were out the back door. Then she swayed and nearly went down and he had to catch her a second time. They moved out together, with Helena safe in his arms, Morgan and Hotch close, the rest keeping a close eye out for the missing Mother Superior. As they passed by that apple tree, Spencer could have sworn that it felt…grateful.

As they reached the bottom of the hill they heard a sound behind them. They turned to see Mother Marion stepping to the center of the doorway. "I will pray for you." She called after them. "I will pray for you all." And then she pressed the button on the object in her hand.

The entire convent went up in a giant fireball.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter seven**

**Washington Medical Center  
Washington DC**

**Spencer**

They lost every one of the Sisters, the Sheriff and his four deputies. That made it a very hard day. Thankfully no one on the team had suffered any serious injuries. Granted being that close to the shock wave had not been anyone's idea of fun, but no one got too dinged by the shrapnel. Still, Spencer thought, now I know what it feels like to be a soccer ball for an elephant.

He came out of the exam room as Morgan was leaving his. They caught up with Emily, JJ and Rossi in a quiet room just off the lobby. They had been at the front of the group, missed the worst of the blast. "Just about everyone is converging on the site, looking for evidence." JJ told them. "Hotch is getting his hearing double-checked. How's the Bishop?" She asked, looking at Rossi.

"He'll be all right. It's not the first time Tom's been blown ass over teakettle. But they want to keep him overnight just in case. He's given us blanket permission to get to the bottom of this, and he said the Diocese is covering all of the victim's medical bills resulting from what happened." The group nodded, it was a good start.

At that point Morgan's phone gave its distinctive ring. "Talk to me baby girl." He said to mid air as he answered it. "You're on speaker."

"Hey, how is she?" Garcia asked. "Are you guys all okay?"

"We're all fine, Garcia." JJ told her. "They said she looks all right so far, but they want to keep her a while to run some more tests. Did you find anything?"

"Okay, Helena Owens does not exist." Garcia told them. "No birth certificate, no school records, no record of her entering the convent, nada. And I can't help you with Margaret Owens, that's too far back to be digital. I did find a Samuel Owens who died in a car crash twelve years ago. Now Samuel went to school in the area, studied engineering at U of M at College Park, worked for the local hydroelectric company, and died in a car accident in the hills. According to the story in the very local paper he had an unknown female with him, and a little girl was found at the scene, but as a minor they didn't say anything more about her."

"Any marriage certificate for Samuel Owens?" Rossi asked her.

"Nope, nothing on file."

"Tom said he thought she was related to Father Paul's housekeeper, a live in, but he only remembers her as Kat."

There was the sound of keys in the background. "I have no record of a housekeeper of any kind, let alone live in, ever working for the parish. He might have paid her cash under the table."

"She has to exist, Garcia." Morgan protested. "She's here."

"Yeah, well, she is very much off the grid, so I cannot help you."

"Garcia what about that container we found?" Spencer asked.

"And that would be the ew icky creepy part. That container you found? It was from Fairfax Cryobank, right here in DC. They ship human sperm for insemination."

Okay, that stopped them all cold. "Mother Marion was trying to get her pregnant?" Emily asked, finally.

"That would explain the vitamins we found." Spencer pointed out. "And the calendar, she was trying to track her cycle."

"Could she even carry a healthy pregnancy under those conditions?"

"Probably not."

They could hear one of her machines beep behind Garcia. "And I just got the coroner's report from the accident and the notes from the first officer on scene and am sending them now."

"All right, thanks baby girl." Morgan rang off as JJ pulled the file open on her tablet, holding it so the others could see, "Anything."

Spencer was, of course, the fastest reader. "Yes, there," he manipulated it larger. "It says he couldn't determine the exact cause of death, the car burned after the accident although the injuries looked minor. But he also found what might have been gunshot wounds in each victim's head."

Emily had the responding officer's notes open on her tablet. "According to this the car was already on fire when the first unit arrived at the scene. There was another driver there who took off as soon as he saw the car; he was unable to get a full plate. A few minutes later a girl came out of the nearby woods and said her name was Helena that her Mom and Dad had died. They took her to the station where Father Paul arrived and had the paperwork to take custody."

"She must have been around twelve at the time." Spencer pointed out. "Did they interview her at a witness at all?"

Emily checked the file. According to this she said they were on their way home from a holiday play, they came around the curve, there was a truck in the middle of the road, her father veered off into a snow bank. Then her mother told her to get out of the car and go hide in the woods and not look back. A few minutes later the car caught on fire. When she saw the lights off the police car she came out of hiding. When they went back for a further interview Father Paul denied it saying that she had been traumatized enough and he had sent her to live with family out of state. CPS never followed up because they couldn't verify the existence of a child to open a case file."

Rossi considered, "That sounds like a deliberate hit to me. An accident to get the car off the road, shoot the parents, then burn the car to hide the evidence. As soon as the deputy came around the curve they took off."

"Then Father Paul hid her at the convent. He had to be close to the family for them to let him take her, especially if the paperwork was dodgy." Emily pointed out. "And he had to have known they were off the grid. Whatever was going on he was in it up to his neck."

"Yeah, but Garcia's not going to be able to get more on him than we already have." Morgan replied. "It's too far back to be digitized. So Father Paul uses the excuse of the great-aunt to hide her at the convent, maybe saying he was going to find her a new family or that other sister said something about school. Only he never does, maybe figuring she was safer there." He shook his head. "The lengths they were going to, they were looking at more than one UnSub. I know this isn't official Witness Protection, but that's what it feels like to me; mob, conspiracy, something big."

"Then maybe Marion Prestwick worked for the other side. Maybe they were able to sneak her in there to keep tabs on Helena, which was why she started poisoning people, eliminating the protectors and maybe witnesses and anyone who could help. And when Helena got old enough to leave on her own, she locked her up instead and started trying for a pregnancy." JJ finished, "Six years in that hole."

"If this was a conspiracy, I'd like to know if blowing the convent if they were discovered was someone else's idea." Rossi told them. "We have five dead officers and twenty innocent victims, all of whom have families who deserve something. And I know Tom will authorize us to keep going."

"If it was a conspiracy, maybe that's why the other women were hiding as well." Spencer suggested. "How far back does this go?"

"And why?" Rossi asked. "What makes those women so special? Because if they were protecting all of them, then it's not the specific woman, it's the family."

"I don't know." Spencer replied. "Hopefully she can tell us."

"Ask gently," Emily reminded them. "It doesn't matter if it's a body part or an object, that woman's been locked away and repeatedly raped over the past six years. And even before that she was extremely sheltered. Maybe JJ and I should be the ones to talk to her."

Morgan shook his head. "Yeah, but she was tortured by a woman. In this case maybe it should be the guys."

"Yeah, but you're more than a little intimidating." Emily pointed out. "So is Hotch. Rossi may be able to pull off the cuddly grandpa routine."

"Cuddly grandpa?" Rossi turned and gave Emily one of those looks. "She seemed pretty attached to Dr. Reid here back in the convent why don't we have him take the preliminary, Morgan can take the cognitive for when her parents died, and if she wants to talk to a woman, JJ, you're a bit less of the Alpha female type."

"Alpha female?" Emily asked.

"Cuddly grandpa." Rossi replied.

And so they turned to look at Spencer.

For once Spencer didn't mind. He didn't even get nervous; he so wanted to speak to her again. "All right," he said, before they headed in that direction.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter eight**

**Washington Medical Center  
Washington DC**

**Spencer**

Helena Owens looked far too small in that bed.

She was surrounded by the usual brace of monitors, wiring, beeping machines, but she still managed to look regal somehow. At the moment she was awake, and her eyes caught Spencer's as soon as he knocked and stuck his head around the door. "Um, Miss Owens, may I come in?"

"Of course," her voice was still soft, quiet from lack of use. Yet it was almost musical.

Spencer came in and pulled up a chair, careful not to touch the bed. "Um, just to make it official I'm Dr. Spencer Reid, I'm with the FBI. We're investigating what happened. Um, is it Sister Helena?" I never thought to ask, he realized.

She smiled and shook her head. "No, I never took vows. I…I've known I have a different vocation for some time now."

"Ah, all right. Well, we're, um, trying to figure out why all that happened to you." Why was he so nervous? It wasn't like he hadn't interviewed a witness before. "Do you remember why you first went to the convent?"

"Vaguely, I was young, I know that. My parents died in a car accident, Paul took me there because Aunt Margaret was my only remaining relative."

"You knew Father Paul before?'

"Yes, Kat worked for him. She was his housekeeper."

"Kat, your Grandmother?" Spencer asked. Helena nodded. "And what was her full name?"

"Katherine Creston"

"And your parents names?"

"Sam and Maria Owens."

"And was the plan for you to remain in the convent?"

"No, as I always understood it, Paul was going to arrange for me to attend boarding school, but he wasn't able to make it work before he died."

Spencer frowned. "If my math is correct you were about eleven or twelve when you went to the convent and he died when you were sixteen. That's at least four years, a long time to figure out how to enroll someone in school. That didn't bother anyone?"

She smiled gently, "Sometimes. But none of the sisters were going to question Father Paul; the hierarchy didn't work that way. They just tried to teach me as best they could so I wouldn't fall behind."

He nodded. "That's why all the sisters had textbooks, they each took a subject?"

"Yes, they each shared the one they liked the best. They all said it was an excuse to further their own educations as well. We covered history, literature, grammar, sciences, math, French, Latin, German…."

He blinked a little at that. "Latine loqueris?"

Her smile grew. "Etiam. Paucis modo dicendum sorores."

"Quidam. " Yes, he had to admit, he was pleasantly surprised. "Did they do anything else to adapt to your being there?" He was trying to decide if there had been a conspiracy or if Mother Marion had been the only UnSub on site.

"Paul brought chickens and goats. They don't eat meat, really, and he said he wanted me to have enough so he brought milk and eggs."

"He and your Aunt died when you were sixteen?"

"Yes, I nursed my aunt through her illness."

He saw her shudder a little and internally he winced in sympathy. He knew how hard it could be to nurse a loved family member at that age, how alone it could make you feel. "I'm sorry. How soon before that did Mother Marion move to the convent?"

"Oh, I don't know; maybe a year? Two? She was sent from the charterhouse after Mother Elizabeth died. I do remember everyone was quite impressed that they found a replacement so quickly. She came out from Switzerland, I believe."

"And did anything change right away?"

Helena considered a moment. "She insisted I start following all the rules of the order, the Lenten fast, rising for Matins, that sort of thing. And doing what I could with the chores around the compound, I had to save my studying for quiet times.

"That must have been hard for a fourteen year old." He recalled wanting to do nothing but sleep, eat and study at that age. If he could eat while studying in bed he was probably at his happiest then.

She managed a smile. "My aunt privately said that she was happy that I had already gone through puberty, and that I was quite tall enough."

Spencer was relieved as well, the lack of sleep and constricted diet would have affected her growth otherwise. "Do you remember what happened when Mother Marion locked you downstairs?"

"Yes, I turned eighteen and she took me to her office and said that if I wanted to stay I had to become a postulant. If not I could go, but I could only take what had come in with me, including my clothing." She made a sound that wasn't a chuckle. "Not much of a choice there, right? So I said I was willing to become a postulant, to start on the path to taking vows. I didn't know what else to do, I didn't know anyone. She said that was fine, but that meant I had to obey her from then on, no more asking questions about everything. I did tend to do that a lot. I agreed, and then she told me to follow her. We went down into the cellar and into that far room, and…that was that."

Spencer sighed internally. This was the part no one wanted to have to talk about. "And what about what happened when you were in the cellar?" He asked as gently as he could. He watched the emotions playing across her face, shame and remembered pain. "We have some female agents here, if that would be easier…."

"I think so. It's not something you should hear."

That confused him. Why shouldn't he hear, he'd heard worse. "I don't understand."

"All these questions," Helena smiled up at him, something up from under that made his pulse race. "Why don't you say what you're really thinking? You don't have to hide it from me."

No, he didn't, did he? For some reason he felt wool wrapped again, and could taste apple honey on the back of his throat. "I'm sorry it took so long. I don't know why."

She shook her head. "It's all right, I understand. No harm was done, in the end." She blushed a little, her cheeks flushing a deeper rose than before, "Promise. She showed me some of your adventures you know, when she could. You'll have to tell me the rest."

"Who showed you?"

"Grandmother," as if he should already know that. "Have I been the only one dreaming?"

"Dreaming?"

She nodded. "She showed me what she could. Haven't you been listening?"

"What….I…" He couldn't decide if he was confused or enchanted. What was going on? "Your Grandmother Kat was telling you about me?" Maybe she was delusional, that would be understandable."

She laughed a little, "No, not Kat. She's been gone for years, unfortunately; no, our Grandmother. Although, I suppose someone else would have been teaching you; different bloodline and all. Llwch probably, I saw him a few times." She smiled just a little more. "How's your knee?"

That, right there, stopped him cold. "How did you know about my knee?"

She laughed again. "I told you, Grandmother showed me. Oh, I wanted to be there for you. I can't imagine how hard it must have been to be in the hospital all alone."

Spencer just blinked at her. "Hotch had been attacked." He repeated, just as he had a million times to himself since then. "He had to send his family away. The Reaper was still out there. Of course he needed the support."

Helena looked up at him with the gentlest eyes, eyes that said she understood and she honored what he was saying and she still felt for him. "Putting your friends first again, I knew you would say that. I understand. You should have had cookies, though." She said, and something just started to melt inside him. "I wish I could have been there for you."

He had been afraid, going through surgery alone. And he'd felt abandoned. Yes, he knew that Hotch had the rougher time of it then, with Jack and Haley gone and the Reaper still out there, but it had been months and months and he'd spent all that time insisting he was Superman like he used to with his Mom, to keep her from going off. He insisted he was just fine even though they didn't know how his knee was going to turn out, how it hurt so much all the time, and none of them ever bothered to look past that and simply ask again. It would have been so good to simply have someone there, someone to go home to, to hold him when there was so much fear and so much pain. He didn't know how this woman knew about that time, how she knew any of it, but he knew in his bones that her offer of support was genuine, that had she been free she would have been beside him the entire way. He would not have been alone. "Thank you."

"You're welcome…Spencer."

He nodded. Yes, first names were right. "Helena, how do you know all this?"

"I told you, Grandmother told me. She showed me in my dreams." She smiled up at him again. "Why don't you go tell…oh, what were their names…JJ and Emily that they can come in so we can get that part over with. I have no clue how to explain, you know, so it's probably going to be horrid. Then maybe we can talk some more?"

"Sure," he had the strange desire to simply not leave. Just leaving her bedside was going to ache. "You'll be all right then?"

"I will be now."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter nine**

**Washington Medical Center  
Washington DC**

**Spencer**

Spencer stepped out of Helena's room and found JJ and Emily. He quickly gave them a rundown of what he had learned from Helena, which mostly confirmed what they had already surmised. He surprised himself by not telling them about her talking about dreams, or knowing about his being shot in the knee. It felt wrong to tell them, he didn't trust them not to ask about why she was so concerned, to ferret out that he had felt abandoned after the shooting, to use that against him at some point in the future. Or just to tell him that she was cold reading him, that his micro-expressions gave it away, that he ought not to trust her.

Besides, how did she know about the discussion he had with Garcia about the cookies?

While they went in to interview her about the rape, a thought he could barely touch, he went to find the others. Hotch was off wrangling various agencies, given that this was a bombing everyone seemed to be in on it. Rossi was still working with his friend, the Bishop, and the Dioceses. And Morgan was just starting to talk to a deputy. "Hey, Reid," Morgan called him over, "Anything new?"

I could tell him, Spencer realized, that would be all right. Morgan has never broken trust with me, not ever. But not with this many people around. "Only confirmation of what we've come up with so far. I think this one is going to be in the details." He looked over at the deputy, wondering what was going on.

"I agree. This is Deputy Rodgers; he was the first cop on scene back at the original accident. Garcia tracked him down." Morgan turned back to his interview. "Is this the person who drove away from the scene?" He showed him Marion Prestwick's ID photograph.

"Nope," the deputy replied."

"You sure?"

"Yep, person I saw was bigger, male, and black."

"Can you describe him?"

"Hmm, 'bout your size and build, bald as well, a lot darker."

"Willing to sit with a sketch artist?"

"After twelve years? I'll give her a go."

"And you couldn't get a license plate?"

"Nope, the plate was covered in snow."

Spencer spoke up. "Was there anything else that stood out about this incident?"

"Yeah, there was." The deputy replied. "It stuck with me all these years, that's why I remembered it. The girl, she was an odd one. I put it in my report that she said her Mom and Dad died, but she called her parents 'Sam' and 'Maria'. At first I just thought, you know, liberal hippy types."

Spencer nodded, turned to Morgan. "She referred to her Grandmother by her first name as well; it might have just been a familial convention"

The deputy nodded. "Yeah, but when Father Paul got there, he started calling her Ma'am. A priest calling a twelve year old girl Ma'am and her just sitting there like it was her due and a'callin' him 'Paul'. I never heard of nothing like that before."

"Huh," Morgan absorbed that. "And you never went back to interview her further?"

The deputy shook his head. "We went back to ask Father Paul about her, but he said he sent her out west to live with family. Said she was all shook up by it and she was better off with her people. Tried to get CPS involved but they said she didn't have any paperwork so there was nothing they could do. And Father Paul took the bodies, had a quiet funeral for them, the coroner said they probably died in the accident….you know, budgets are tight and Father Paul had been part of the community for, hell, long as anyone could remember. We all trusted him."

"Yeah, we get it." Morgan nodded. Spencer could tell he was repressing his frustration. "Come on, we'll call the office, get you set up with a sketch artist."

The details, Spencer thought, this is all in the details. When Morgan headed off he went to find Rossi and the Bishop. He knocked on the door, and waited to be invited into the room. "Hey Reid." Rossi acknowledged him. "Did you get anything?"

"Maybe," he turned to the Bishop. "Do you remember a Katherine Creston at all?"

"Yes!" You could almost see the light bulb going on over the Bishop's head. "Kat Creston! She was Father Paul's housekeeper. I could not remember her last name."

"And her family?"

"Oh, I remember she had a daughter. Mary? Marion? No, Maria, that was it. I remember Paul and Kat knew each other back in high school, or so he told me. She ran off to Baltimore the year he entered the seminary. Came back not long after he was settled in the parish, said she'd married but he died in Vietnam. Anyway, she was a young widow, no money, Paul took her in. Paid her under the table out of his own income."

"And that didn't sound hinky to you?' Rossi asked.

"Well of course it sounded hinky. For goodness sake we could all pretty much guess that he was one of those who went to the seminary to avoid the draft. But given all the other scandals going on a monogamous relationship with a consenting woman of the appropriate age that was kept very discrete wasn't a high priority. Besides, other than that he was a model priest. I was pleased to have him in my community." The Bishop turned to Spencer. "Why do you ask?"

"Apparently Helena was Katherine Creston's granddaughter."

The Bishop sighed and shook his head. "That means she was also likely Paul's granddaughter. Well, that explains why he got involved, but why take her to the convent? He probably knew a dozen families that would have taken her in."

"What do you know about Katherine's family?"

"Oh, very little; I don't think I ever met any of them."

"Did she have any other family? Brothers? Sisters?"

"No, not that I recall; you know, we have all of Father Paul's files in the archives, maybe you can find something in there."

Spencer did an inward little happy dance. Not only was that very likely an outstanding place to find a lead, but a solid paper trail was something to be enjoyed in and of itself. "Thank you, that might be very helpful. Um, did you ever notice, did that family call each other by titles, Mom, Dad or did they tend to use first names?"

"Oh, first names. I always figured Kat must have spent time in one of those hippy commune places for a while, that's where she picked it up."

"Did Father Paul call Kat 'Ma'am' a lot?"

The Bishop chuckled, "All the time. I always figured it was because she ran his life like a staff sergeant. And then after she died her daughter took over, and he started doing it to her. It was just teasing, I thought. Why?"

"Just trying to sort a pattern, thank you." He nodded to Rossi, indicating that he would explain later, and headed back out.

Back in the hallway Emily and JJ were just coming out of Helena's room. "Well that was horrible." Emily sighed.

"Why?" Spencer asked.

"It's hard enough to do one of those interviews with your average adult." Emily told him. "Now try it with someone raised in a convent."

JJ had joined them, shaking her head. "She didn't even know the correct terminology for her own body parts; let alone what was happening to her."

"Did she know enough to fight back?" Spencer said. He had to know how bad it was, he realized, for some reason he had to know how deeply to drive the guilt into his soul.

"Not the first time." Emily told him. "Afterwards she was told that if she ever put up a fuss, Mother Marion's words, she'd be abandoned down there. After that it was just lie back and think of England."

"The thing about artificial insemination is that you can't really try it every month. You have to wait a month to see if it worked. And Mother Marion had to be careful about the number of times she took a delivery. It came out to about four times a year." JJ shook her head. "Thank God it never took."

Spencer's mind had been ticking over in the background, even while he considered the odd desire to feel guilty about what happened to a woman he just met. "What kind of a family always refers to the eldest female as 'Ma'am', even when she's a minor?"

"A royal one," JJ replied. "What, you think we found the missing Romanov?"

"No, they found her in the same pit as her brother." Emily informed her. "DNA testing confirmed it back in '09." She turned to Spencer. "Why?"

"I don't know. We know that Father Paul was heavily involved; the Bishop offered us his papers to go through. I was going to talk to her some more, then see about the papers in the morning."

"Well she's going to have to wait too. She got pretty upset when she realized we were talking about reproduction, they gave her something to help her sleep. She's going to be out 'till morning."

Spencer drooped inwardly; he really had wanted to talk to her again. "Well, tomorrow then."

"Yeah. We have quite a mystery."

"We do."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter ten**

**The Ponce de Leon Co-Op**   
**4514 Connecticut Ave NW**   
**Washington DC**   
**#512**

Spencer came in, locked the door behind him, carted his grocery bag into the kitchen sighed. For some odd reason he couldn't stop thinking of Helena. Everything he usually did after a case and on the trip home had done nothing to get her out of his head. He actually wanted to go back to the hospital and check on her, just sit watch her sleep for a while. What the hell was wrong with him anyway?

It was as he was unpacking his usual round of mostly pre-made meals, the microwave being his best friend, that he caught the faint scent of apples. That giant apple tree had sadly gone up with the convent, he thought, but he had been focused on Helena and hadn't thought of it until now. Now he pulled the core he had set aside out of his satchel and had to smile. Sure enough, there were five seeds clinging to the browning flesh. The apple tree wasn't entirely gone after all.

At first he plucked the seeds out on a small plate, to dry and then perhaps someone over at George Washington, perhaps in Biology or Botany, could help him sort how to save the particular strain. But then he had an idea. He dug a Styrofoam cup out of his cupboard, went across to the apartment next door and knocked. "Who is it?" A quavering, elderly voice asked.

"It's Spencer, Mrs. Timmons, from next door."

Mrs. Timmons had lived in the Ponce de Leon since the Cold War, had come to DC with her husband and was now an elderly widow. But she had a penchant for gardening; her balcony was full to overflowing with pots. So when she answered he asked "May I borrow a cup of potting soil? A friend gave me some seeds; I'd like to try to start one."

"Oh, lovely! Of course you may. Come in, come in." She eyed his cup with a professional judgment. "But that cup will never do though. I'll tell you what; if you'll change a few light bulbs for me I'll give you just the thing. I keep forgetting to ask my son."

"Um, sure."

Over the next fifteen minutes Spencer changed bulbs in her kitchen, dining room and entry, and in exchange she presented him with a small, brown plastic pot with a saucer attached, about three-quarter filled with roughly two cups of soil. "Oh, thank you. Here, that should do you nicely. Now soak it well and then keep it moist. I like to put a bit of plastic wrap over it until it sprouts. Good luck to you."

"Thank you Mrs. Timmons, good night." Spencer went back to his place, planted one of the apple seeds, watered it but skipped the covering for lack of plastic wrap. I doubt this will work, he thought, but at least I feel like I saved the tree as well as Helena today. Call it a positive double hit.

The high off that carried him through the night.

* * *

_He couldn't find her. She'd been in his arms a moment ago, and now he was moving through the mists trying to find her. It felt like he'd been looking all his life. One more step, and then another, and finally there was a door ahead of him_

_The door opened in Spencer's face. The man standing there was older than he remembered, with a thick, full beard and much more grey. But the face was utterly familiar. Gideon he thought, Gideon. But when he opened his mouth something else came out, "Llwch."_

" _There you are." Gideon/Llwch grabbed Spencer by the elbow and pulled him into a small, wooden room with workbenches all around. "I've been trying to get through to you for years. You have not been listening." In the center of the room there was an easel, and on it was da Vinci's Magdalene._

_Spencer stopped to look at the drawing once again. "What have I been missing?"_

_Gideon/Llwch kept tugging at his elbow, trying to get him to move toward a curtained off archway. "Four or five years ago, or was it six? The blessed raven got the prophecy wrong. We've been working with a bad profile this entire time. I tried telling Myrddin but he can't get his head out of his books and his alchemy, the stubborn bastard."_

" _Myrddin? Wait, I know these names." They were familiar, right on the tip of his tongue, but for the life of him…._

" _Of course you do, of course you do." Gideon/Llwch placed his palm against Spencer's chest. "The blessed raven was selfish, remember? That's the key to it all. That's why there was a mistake in the profile. That's why you only saw his case, not the greater one. Now you have been thinking about a question to ask the Oracle, do that. Then take that information and the profile the blessed raven tricked you into getting wrong to the Hunter and she'll explain it all to you, tell you where the mistake was. Then you'll know what you must do and you'll be able to identify and track your UnSub."_

" _This doesn't make any sense." And yet it did, but it was all so fast, like data dumping into his head._

_Gideon/Llwch stopped him again. "Oh it has to. It has to or else everything dies. All hope will be lost if you can't sort this one son. Trust the team, but follow your heart first. Watch for the signs." They had made it to the alcove, and Gideon/Llwch reached up to tug the curtain away. "If you don't stop this UnSub this is what will happen."_

* * *

Spencer woke screaming to the sound of his alarm clock.

That was one hell of a dream. What was creepier was that he didn't usually remember dreams, but this was a vivid one. The solution, however….

Well, hell. Whatever it was it would come to him.

He got up, staggered to the bathroom, shaved, showered, dressed, and then finished the zombie walk of the morning at the coffee pot, which was already hot and full from being set the night before. It wasn't until he was actually drinking his coffee that it caught his eye.

There was a two-inch tall apple seedling on his windowsill.

**BAU Headquarters  
Quantico, VA**

Spencer was still trying to sort that dream as he went into work that morning and went straight for the coffee pot. Somehow he knew it was important. And something else felt off as well, but he couldn't put his finger on that either. And what would make an apple seed sprout that fast? What kind of fertilizer did Mrs. Timmons use, anyway?

He was distracted from his thoughts by the sudden appearance of a rainbow colored apparition at his elbow. "Okay, so why are you here so early?" Garcia asked.

"Um," wait, was it early? And if so, why was he here this early? "Um, I think I forgot breakfast." That was the second thing wrong, he was still hungry. As much as he hated filling the Absent Minded Professor stereotype sometimes…..

"Well, the cafeteria is open; you have time to go down still if you don't want doughnuts. So what's got you all distracted?"

"Oh, it's, um, nothing."

"Oh, no," Garcia took him by the elbow and tugged him toward the table. "You do not get to get away with that one. We have to look after each other, you know that."

We, those of us left behind last summer. Garcia had never betrayed him, not once. Why had he not realized that before? "I just…I had this dream last night and it's still bothering me."

"Ahhh, okay spill; dreams can be prophetic, you know."

"No, dreams are just your subconscious sorting recent events."

"Well given what goes on in your head that could be the same thing. Now start talking and let the Oracle of Quantico divine the truth for you." Spencer stopped for a moment, his jaw hanging open. Garcia looked over at him as she lifted her doughnut for a bite. "What?"

"The Oracle of Quantico?"

"Yeah, so?"

Spencer proceeded to tell her everything he remembered from the dream, including reciting everything that was said. She listened carefully and even took some notes. "You're taking notes?"

"Sweetie, may I remind you of the Riley Jenkins case? You never know what's going to come percolating out of that noggin of yours. So, starting at the top, any idea how to spell Llwch?"

"Um, L – L – W – C – H, not a clue how I came up with that."

She had pulled her tablet over and was clearly looking it up. "Well, it appears to be a Welsh boy's name. Any idea why you're giving Gideon a Welsh name?"

"No, except it's also familiar. I've heard it somewhere before."

"And you can't remember? Okay, that has meaning too, that picture that was delivered to Rossi ties in, and a case four to six years ago. Sure it was the Raven? I mean, we had the Fox back then, didn't we? But I don't remember a Raven."

"Neither do I. I assume that refers to an UnSub, but without a better idea I'd rather not go digging through the archives."

"Well whoever it was they must have gotten on Gideon's bad side." She pointed out.

"Why?"

"Because he was cursing him, 'That blessed Raven!' that sort of thing. He also said the Raven was selfish, right?"

"Yes, which was why we got the profile wrong, or at least part of it wrong."

"Okay, and what was that about…Myrddin?"

"That's also Welsh; Merlin, of all people."

"So Merlin's been too wrapped up in books and alchemy…." Garcia took a deep breath, and her eyes went wide.

"What?"

"Alchemy… turning lead into gold… turning bullets into money. What if Rossi is Merlin, and Gideon sent him the picture to show him something?"

"Garcia, I really don't think that Gideon broke into the Pitti Palace and stole a priceless piece of art just to send Rossi a message. He would have left a voicemail."

"I meant symbolically, in your dream. Ugh." She went back to her notes. "Okay, I have no idea who the Hunter is, but we have already determined that I am the Oracle of Quantico. So, speak. What question has been preying on your mind?"

Spencer sat back and considered. Garcia had never hurt him, not once. Trust your team, Gideon had said, and follow your heart. "Helena Owens," he finally admitted. "They were keeping her family off the grid practically before there even was a grid. Is it possible to track someone if nothing's ever been digitized, like maybe through husbands, fathers, something?"

Garcia considered a moment. "Wellllll, I can only go back as far as things have been digitized, and, you know, we would need a case for that and do we have one? But, I have been helping Kevin put together a family tree for his mom for her big birthday coming up…"

"So?"

"So I know a good genealogist. They can go hundreds of years if need be. They don't need to know that we're going to analyze what they come up with from a profiler point-of-view. And it wouldn't be going through the Bureau."

Spencer felt a slow smile crossing his face. "You are the Oracle of Quantico, you know that."

Garcia grinned. "Yes, I do."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter eleven**

**BAU Headquarters  
Quantico, VA**

**Spencer**

The day meandered on like any day at the office, paperwork, reports, requests for reviews of cases, was this a problem; that sort of thing. But office days weren't what they had been, once. That sense of camaraderie was just gone.

It probably had something to do with the layout. He knew he could still trust himself to Garcia, even if he just realized that and to Morgan as well. Rossi had always been a bit tricky, being his hero in so many ways, but he had been there for him when he went after his Dad; and at other times as well and now that he knew about The Problem he could be trusted with just about anything. And Hotch was still Hotch, the leader, his boss, and a friend but there was still that bit of distance quite suitable to a supervisor/subordinate relationship.

But they all had other offices. He had to share the bull pen with CheetoBreath and someone who supposedly had an ulcer. Really, she should have done her research before she came up with that one, 90% of peptic ulcers were caused by the  _Helicobacter pylori_  bacterium, and very few were actually caused by stress. And living on government funds under a clean name in Paris, playing scrabble with your best friend every night while the bad guys are known to be in Boston does not equal that kind of stress. He did understand the whys of it, had forgiven them that much, knew he could trust them in the field, no one screwed around there. But there was no way he was going to open up to have the kind of easy fun they used to. That was shattered and neither of them seemed interested in any sort of repair. And tonight Garcia would go home to Kevin, Morgan probably had a date, Rossi would go home to his mansion, and he would….

He knew what he wanted to do, if only out of a sense of curiosity. The question was, could he?

One person to ask, in the end; he gathered up his files, headed to Hotch's office, and knocked.

"Yes?"

"I have the Perinsky file," brought that in and put it in the in basket. "Um, question, what exactly is the policy on contacting victims or witnesses after a case?"

Hotch looked up from his desk. "It depends on the case." He nodded to the chair opposite. "There are two questions involved with the cases we handle here in the BAU. The first, and perhaps of more interest to the Bureau as a whole, is if the case will be going to trial. Most prosecutors would rather law enforcement not give the Defense a chance to accuse law enforcement of tampering with a witness. What case are we discussing?"

Hotch would ask. But then, better safe than sorry and Hotch would never use it against him. After all, he never used Tobias against him, not once. And he said nothing after the Owen Savage case was over, right? "The convent bombing; I know Helena Owens is going to need some help getting on her feet, and I might be in a unique position to help her."

"Well, there's definitely no trial pending. Marion Prestwick was the only firm suspect. A suspicion of a possible conspiracy doesn't mean there is one. Why do you think you should be the one to help?"

"Because she's been raised in what amounts to the medieval period. Given how much I studied that time with my Mother I think I can bring an understanding of that, as well as how to navigate the survivor system," which was more or less mostly true.

Hotch nodded. "The other concern, more specific to our unit is in getting in over your head. She's been through a great deal of trauma, and will need the kind of support that would tax anyone's resources. And this job is uniquely draining. You're not going to be able to fix her, and you'll only hurt both yourself and her trying."

Spencer frowned. That was a very good point. "I wasn't even considering trying. I know I'm not qualified and I don't have the resources. But if I can help her arrange therapeutic support, as well as help her get a roof over her head, that sort of thing, I'd like to."

Hotch nodded, "All right. I don't see the Bureau having a problem with it. Just be careful. And check with Garcia, she volunteers with victims groups; she might have resources that can help. Oh, and Reid;" Spencer had already gotten up to go; now he paused. "Thank you for asking first."

Thank you for being both professional and a friend, Spencer thought. He just nodded and smiled. "Thank you."

**Washington Medical Center  
Washington DC**

After work, after a brief stop at a bookstore, Spencer went back to the hospital. He told himself he was just curious, he wanted to see how she was doing, how she was adapting, how the hell she knew about his knee. He told himself that until he almost believed it.

Almost.

He knocked first and at the "Yes" stuck his head in the door. There in the bed sat Helena, a pile of magazines on the rolling table in front of her, just sitting, looking much like she had been doing nothing at all. "May I come in?"

Her whole face brightened with a smile. "Yes, of course. You don't have to knock."

He came in and made his way to the chair beside the bed. "I don't?"

"No, not ever; it's been rather dull, I asked for something to read and they keep bringing me these." She gestured to the pile of magazines. "I think they're catalogs or something; lots of pictures of things and half-naked people, and nothing to actually read in them."

"No TV?" He asked.

She shook her head. "I vaguely remember cartoons. As it is I turned it on for a few seconds and it gave me a headache." She nodded to the closet. "I found a Bible, but I rather have it memorized now."

"I never asked what you did down there."

"Read a lot; did fancy work when she brought it down and gave me the light. I don't know how she managed that."

"She rigged a solar panel. I suspected that you might not have anything to do, so I took the liberty." He reached into his satchel and pulled out three hardcover books. "Augustine, Aquinas, Aristotle. I kind of started with the A's."

Her smile turned into a grin as she reached for them. "Oh, old friends! Thank you so much! Everything was destroyed, I just…."

He shook his head. "I'm glad to help. Besides, I don't know many other people who have read like this. I can't say I've ever done fancy work though…."

"Oh, I used to knit and do embroidery. We would make up altar sets for different churches as a source of income for the convent, but the sisters were getting a bit too old to handle the fine details so they taught me. Mother Marion always brought down just about enough, but I was finishing a lace shawl from the leftovers I collected. I wanted something pretty, just for myself, in defiance of the order rules. I suppose that's understandable." She sighed a little. "Given the situation it was a small thing to lose."

Given the situation, he thought, small things matter. "I'm sorry; about all of it." Idiot, he thought, you're here to try to cheer her up. "So, is the medieval period a favorite, or do you prefer the modern era or…?"

"Renaissance, actually, but the medieval period is a close second….wait. You're not related to a Dr. Diana Reid, are you?"

Spencer blinked at that. "Yes, she's my mother. Why?"

Helena's smile came back. "Sister Bernadette's brother was a professor of medieval studies before he died. He used to send her back issues of all the journals. I loved the piece on Margery Kemp."

"Really? That's her favorite author. Mom always said that…." They were interrupted by a knock, a nurse coming to do the usual round of checking. He stepped out to give her a bit of privacy, and with it realized what had just happened. "Okay, how did you do that?" He asked when he came back.

"How did I do what?"

"Get this conversation completely off track. I came down here to ask how you knew about my knee and about Garcia not making me cookies."

"I told you, Grandmother showed me."

Spencer sighed. This was going to be harder than he thought.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter twelve**

**Washington Medical Center  
Washington DC**

**Spencer**

I ought to be frustrated and upset with this, Spencer thought, but I just can't be with her. "What do you mean by that?" he asked as he folded himself into the chair beside her bed again.

Helena looked away for some reason. She's ashamed about something. "When the light went out, or there was nothing else to do but go to bed I would. And Grandmother would show me what you were doing, or what was happening around you. She'd show me the people you were helping, the adventures you were having. It was….fascinating."

Spencer sighed. "I feel like I'm chasing something around in circles." He admitted. "Okay, first rule of Gideon, always go as far back as you can, the first time tells you the most. What do you remember about your family before the accident?"

"I don't know. We were close, I remember that. We kind of spent all our time together."

"What about your friends?"

"Um, I didn't really have any."

"What about at school?"

She shook her head. "I studied at home, with Maria."

"You didn't go at all?"

"No, it wasn't safe for me to be away that much during the day. I always had someone around, Maria, Sam, Kat or Paul."

"Did everyone in your family refer to each other by first names?"

"Um, yes, we just always did. Kat always said we were all equals, that age didn't matter. Although Sam usually called Paul "Sir" and they always called Kat "Ma'am" until she died."

"Did Sam then call Maria "Ma'am?"?"

"No, he always called her My Lady." She smiled a little. "They were that kind of in love, I guess. Paul used to call Kat that sometimes too, but only when they thought no one was listening."

Trying to be discrete, Spencer thought. There is a pattern here I just cannot see. "Did they ever tell if that there was anything special about your family?"

She looked down at the blanket and actually blushed. "You know, you could tell me more about your adventures. I only got to see bits and pieces, but they always looked so fascinating."

"Helena." He sighed. "Look, I have known masters at deflecting a conversation. You're not. Tell me what they told you."

"It doesn't matter." She insisted. "You're here now, and I'm free, so why can't we just move forward?"

"Because I have no clue what's going on." He replied. "I feel like I barely have enough pieces to determine that there is a puzzle here, let alone to solve it; and I want to get to the truth."

She smiled at him. "You always do, don't you Spencer. " She sighed. "I just don't want to hurt you is all, this was how this had to happen. If it wasn't it wouldn't have happened this way."

Now it was his turn to sigh. "Helena, you can't hurt me."

"Yes I can." She was so sure and yet her voice was so gentle. "Words always hurt the most. Just….please remember that it's over, and that we're here, now, and we have our whole lives ahead of us, so none of it really matters."

He nodded. "All right, I'll try. Now, what did they tell you?"

"They said there was something special about our family. They never told me what, they said they would explain when the time came, whatever that meant, but Kat always said that we had to be careful, that if anyone came around who looked too interested or who asked too many question to come tell someone. She said that's what her grandmother had told her, and her grandmother before that."

"How far back did it go? Where is your family from?"

"Wales, by way of Ireland; I don't know. All I know is that Kat said they had to leave safe harbor when the Great Hunger came because it was driving our ancestor mad."

The Great Hunger, now that he could look up. "And that was why you couldn't go to school?"

She nodded. "Yes. They told me I couldn't have close friends; that people shouldn't get to know us too well. They said that when I was older I'd learn how to keep people away, and then I could go to high school. And, um…" Okay, now she was blushing again.

"And?"

"They told me I'd find someone. Kat found Paul when she was in high school, and Maria found Sam. They told me when I met him I'd know he was the right one, and to tell them right away so they could help. But then my parent's died and Paul left me in the convent. The last thing he ever told me was not to worry, it would sort somehow. Then Mother Marion locked me in the cellar and I didn't know how it was supposed to sort from there. But Grandmother came to me and said this time it had to be done the old way, and she knew I was so scared and so alone and so she started showing me what you were doing, your adventures, so I would know. It helped, you know, with the waiting. I didn't feel so alone."

Right, now it made sense. Unfortunately it made sense. He tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his heart. Now he could, he should, get up and walk away. "Helena, I think you hung this on the first person who opened that door, which is understandable; developing romantic feelings for a rescuer…"

"Arthur Malcolm."

Spencer stopped. "I'm sorry?"

"Arthur Malcolm; that was the one you hated the most, because he used science to justify and excuse what he did to his daughter and the other girls. Mason Turner was a close second, especially after his brother died, because his brother was innocent at heart, but you could almost understand because he was trying to cure his paraplegia, and the frustration and desperation drove him insane. But Arthur Malcolm didn't have any excuse. And now his daughter is going to be locked up forever while he'll only get a few years at best. I agree; there is something inherently unjust there."

Spencer sat back down in shock.

Helena continued. "Everyone was angriest with George Foyet and Ian Doyle because they went after family, but you could understand them, so you were able to distance yourself. The most frightening one of all was Jack Vaughn, because he wasn't crazy. There was nothing wrong with him, he wasn't mentally ill or deranged or delusional in any way. He listened to your argument and then made a deliberate decision. You'd never known that a human could do that before, that's what frightened you, the possibility that someone could be completely sane and not have any pressing need and still choose to kill and be perfectly all right with it. You were willing to risk everything for Owen Savage because he reminded you so much of you growing up, which everyone understood, maybe, but they'll never understand why you want to help Adam so badly. Because they don't understand how much you loved Tobias, because he was the first one to show you how…." Her eyes were beginning to fill with tears. "…oh, it's not like that at all. I've so wanted to tell you that for so long. I didn't know what you were doing, but Grandmother explained everything to me. I just…I was stuck, I couldn't be there. I'm sorry."

"How can you know all this?" He was literally stunned. He didn't have an answer. "….mind reading?"

"No, not at all, she let me watch from her perspective. I was just paying attention. You matter, you know, more than whatever else was going on. If someone had been paying attention they would have seen." She sighed, twisted her fingers in her lap. "We were both so scared when you caught Anthrax, we nearly lost you. Did you know that Morgan sat outside your hospital room the entire time?"

Spencer's mind was still trying to find an anchor point here, somewhere. "Ahhh, no, no I didn't. She showed you…"

"What she could. The timing had to be right; you were asleep a lot of the time. Which was all right, at least I felt less alone knowing you were still out there."

Right, Spencer stared at her, just letting his mind process. He could almost believe that she looked up information on all those cases, cold read him to get his reaction to them. But the Nichols/Brown case had been conducted under the highest levels of national security there was no way she could have known he had Anthrax, no more than ten people ever had. Occam's Razor, the simplest solution…. "Why me?" Why was whatever this was watching me?

She shrugged, "Destiny. I was just always glad that you seemed like a terribly nice sort."

"Thank you." Nice was probably a good thing, given that they seemed to be the victim of some kind of supernatural matchmaker. "So what part of all that was supposed to hurt me?"

Helena didn't say anything. Clearly she was trying to figure out how to explain. "It...it wasn't your fault. Grandmother said that if Llwch had been there….."

She didn't need to explain anymore. That creeping desire to feel guilty about all this suddenly rose up and tried to choke him.

It had been years.

She'd been stuck in that hole and repeatedly assaulted for years with nothing more than visions of his life for company, a life she should have been a part of. He should have saved her much sooner than this. He should have been there. Destiny. But somewhere along the line, he got the profile wrong. That was what she was afraid to say, what she was afraid might hurt him. He was late. She was hurt because he was late. She lost six years of her life because he missed something and so he was late.

Damn.

He sat back as he reeled with the realization. "I am so sorry." He managed to get out at last. "I…I didn't even know."

"No, it's all right. It's all right, it's over. I understand. She said you just didn't know; you never had a chance to learn like I did. It's been so long that what she called the usual way of things was breaking down. But we'll right it from now on, I know we will."

"Yes, but we still don't know what we're sorting; where all of this is coming from and what makes your family so special."

She considered this a moment. "Well, if anyone can figure it out you can. I have complete faith in you."

He didn't know if he should be embarrassed, proud or terrified. "Well, whatever it is, we will figure it out. If there is something else out there I won't let them harm you again."

She smiled up at him. "Now that I believe."

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter thirteen**

**Jerry's Place  
Washington DC**

**Spencer**

One of the nice things about having a friend who owned a bar was that he was up to all hours. Including after the nurses threw him out for the night. He headed straight over to Jerry's, dearly wanting to talk this out with someone. But for some odd reason he realized when he got there that whomever he was supposed to discuss this with, it wasn't Jerry, at least not in great detail.

Which was why, when Jerry passed the coffee, he noticed the disgruntled look on Spencer's face. "And what's gotten in to you?"

"I met a girl." Spencer told him. He thought he could tell him that much.

"Well, finally! That's not a reason to be off your feed."

"I don't know. She's the victim in a case we've been working on. I'm still not entirely certain she's not just interested because I was her hero."

Jerry gave him the classic hand fling. "And what's wrong with being her hero?"

"It's not exactly the basis for a lasting relationship."

"No, but it's as good a place as any to start. Which case, if you can tell me?"

"Did you hear about the convent bombing east of here?"

"The…." Jerry just stood there a moment, flabbergasted. "Don't tell me she's one of the nuns. Please don't tell me she's one of the nuns."

"No, she was just, ah, visiting. Why?"

"Leave it to you to fall for a woman who's taken a vow of chastity."

Spencer could feel his ears burning, "No vows. I already asked." He gave his coffee a meditative stir. "You're familiar with Irish-American history, aren't you?"

"Spencer, this is a cop bar. I'd better be."

Spencer chuckled. "Does the phrase 'The Great Hunger' mean anything to you?"

"An Gorta Mór, the Irish Potato Famine." Jerry nodded. "What about it?"

Ah, now, how to put this. "Did you ever hear of anything unique or different being taken from Ireland or Wales to America during it?"

"Only about a third of the country, or so it sounded like; well, no, wait, there was one story….hold on." Spencer watched as his friend made a round of the bar, making sure everyone was content and getting them fresh mugs before coming back to settle. "The first thing you have to understand was that this was less a natural disaster, more a genocide."

"I thought the Potato Famine was caused by an outbreak of potato blight."

"Partially, there was a bad outbreak of blight, which lasted several years, but the only reason why the loss of the potato caused so many deaths was because that was the only thing the peasants were allowed to keep for themselves. Right through the Famine shipments of grain, meats and foodstuffs were sent from Ireland to England to feed the gentry there and deliveries of food and money to help alleviate the problem were routinely re-routed." He sighed and stirred some sugar into his coffee. "In 1848 a couple of fellows named O'Brian and Meagher, among others, tried to start a rebellion. They were going to break free from the Crown, set up an all-Irish Parliament, and most importantly, close the harbor for grain shipments out. They went to the Continent, tried to get support from Paris, but in the end the Rebellion lost."

"What happened to the leaders?"

"Well O'Brian and Meagher were arrested and set to be transported without trial, Habeus Corpus having been suspended. Some of the others escaped to the Continent, or to the States. Eventually Meagher managed to get free, make his way back. He ended up helping to found the next round of rebellion, a little group called the Irish Republican Army."

"The IRA," former training ground of one Ian Doyle, Spencer recalled. "But what does that have to do with something coming to the States?"

"Well, supposedly some lingering bit of native royalty in Wales sends over some kind of treasure, either to buy food for the people of Ireland or to support the rebellion or something. It had been entrusted to the Black clan, whoever that was. But when the rebellion fell apart it was taken to America for safekeeping, until the next round could win. And you know how long that took."

Spencer nodded. "But no one knows what kind of treasure?"

"Nope, it was a big secret at the time. Rumor had it that the Black Clan would kill or die for it; they were that loyal and it mattered that much. That was why, supposedly, they avoided the usual ports and brought it in to Baltimore."

"Interesting, this would have been in 1848 then?"

"Yeah, why are you asking?"

"Just curious, I was doing some more research on an old case. Not one I can talk about."

Jerry sighed. "That's the kind of thing that makes me wish I hadn't retired."

**The Ponce de Leon Co-Op**   
**4514 Connecticut Ave NW**   
**Washington DC**   
**#512**

There was one problem with all of this Spencer thought as he tucked himself beneath the covers, there's something decidedly uncomfortable about being spied upon all the time. What did she see, work? Sleep? My longing to get high and fighting it?

No, he thought, there's nothing I wouldn't have wanted her to see.

* * *

_The mist was thick around him, and yet scentless. This time his head was clear. He stepped to the water's edge where the usual items waited, thick towels, a basket with things to drink, with the usual massage oils, and yet his companion was no where to be seen._

" _She's over having her own lessons." Gideon/Llwch said from behind his shoulder. "She'll be along."_

_He looked around at the so familiar older man. "I do not understand any of this."_

" _You use the skills I taught you to protect her; she uses the skills passed down from her Grandmother to look after you. It's a fair deal." Gideon/Llwch chuckled. "It's not rocket science."_

" _It's not fair." Spencer protested. "She deserves a life."_

" _So do you."_

" _I have a life. I have my work, my studies and my friends. She has nothing."_

" _Yes, but you don't have this. Maybe the last piece for you is the first piece for her. Maybe you can help her figure out what she wants to do with the rest of it, outside of destiny."_

" _Outside of destiny?"_

_Gideon/Llwch smiled, "As her friend." He nodded to where a form was swimming up in the mineral darkened water. "Enjoy this, you've both been apart too long. Be what you are meant to be. But also be her friend. And in the meantime fix the profile and find the UnSub, don't dawdle, this is the most important one of all."_

_Spencer turned around as a splash snapped across the water…._

* * *

Spencer sat up in bed as his radio went off. The snap of the splash was the alarm clicking over.

All right, he thought. I'm still not certain what this is, what I'm feeling or how she knows what she knows. But I know I like her, outside of everything else, I like  _her_. I can start as her friend.

The apple tree was up to two and a half inches and looked to be putting out a set of true leaves.

**BAU Headquarters  
Quantico, VA**

Garcia had brought him the information about the genealogist. He knew they had to be careful, this wasn't exactly a case and he hadn't exactly asked Helena if it was all right, but the woman Garcia sent him to was a friend, and he was assured she would keep it quiet. He suggested that she also look for a "black clan" name who might be involved, and who might have landed in Baltimore in 1848-49. It was a long shot, but why not, right?

Even better, the Diocese delivered Father Paul's papers. He took over an unused room, set up a folding table and a chair, and dove in happily. He quickly realized that there was one, unanticipated problem.

Father Paul was a packrat.

The man had kept everything, every scrap of paper that could conceivably have any meaning in his life. Old high school essays, notes from his time in the seminary, invitations from weddings where he had been the officiant, everything related to every holiday, every funeral, every sermon, every year's budget. Boxes upon boxes of paper and after being shuttled back and forth a few times none of it was in any kind of order. Some would say he had died too young, but in his life he had amassed enough paper for at least three men. Even Spencer was discouraged.

Well, he thought as he sipped his coffee and looked at the pile. Assume some kind of out there, legendary basis for all this. Assume this was a myth, you were on a quest. What would the epic heroes do at this point?

Hmm. All right.

Taking his coffee he went and found Garcia. "Can you help me for a minute?" She followed him back and stood gaping at the pile of boxes. "Pick a box, any box."

"Um, why?"

"Just do it. Without thinking, the first one that feels right. Then reach in without looking and hand me the first thing that comes to hand."

"Okay, why?" She went over and started shifting to get to her chosen box."

"Because you're the Oracle of Quantico; I'm trying a modern day version of rolling the bones to determine the course of actions."

"Do you really think this will work?"

Spencer shrugged, "Couldn't hurt."

Garcia got to her box, stuck her hand in, and came back out with a composition book from about the 1960's, from the looks of it. His mother had some still in her collection. "Something like this?" She asked.

He took it from her and had a look. It appeared to start with the first day of freshman year, and continued forward in typical journal format. He looked in the box and found more, lots more. "Yes, I think you found his journals. All…" His brain processed before he could consider it. "...two hundred and seventy four of them."

"Oh, better you than me." She sighed for him.

**Washington Medical Center  
Washington DC**

That night Spencer found himself actually hurrying out at the end of the day, wanting to get to the hospital to see her again. No, he had no clue why, except that he felt better around her. He enjoyed her company; it was as simple as that. And this time they weren't going to discuss her past or her family or how she knew what she knew, not if he could help it. He wanted to get to know her as a friend, and given that they had both studied classical philosophy he was hoping to get her opinion. It seemed like a good place to start.

As did something else.

The only problem with that plan was how her smile curled into his groin and stayed there. "You brought more books." Helena said as he came in the room.

"I did. I don't know that many other people who've studied classical philosophy outside of the university setting, I brought a few I thought you might have looked at, you know, something to talk about. But I also wanted to ask you, have you ever played chess?"

She nodded. "Yes, Paul taught me. He used to play with me every Sunday after mass."

Without a word he pulled his portable set out of his bag. Her eyes lit up, she sat up straighter, folded her legs under the blanket, and pointed to the foot of the bed. He toed off his shoes and got comfortable as she rolled the table in between them.

Yes, he could start as a friend.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter fourteen**

**Spencer**

_He was sitting in a corner of the chamber, the air was soft and warm around him. He was sitting at a table across from Helena, a chess board between them. Thankfully he was not naked; he was in his usual cords, sweater vest and shirt. He was also grateful that he wasn't wearing any of the trappings of the FBI, no heavy vest, no gun at his belt. He had conceded to the heat enough to roll up his sleeves and loosen his tie. She was also dressed, a simple t-shirt, some skirt that fanned out around her, might have been denim, her dark hair pinned tidily back at her temples. It didn't stop her from being utterly lovely, radiant._

" _Why are you denying yourself?" Gideon/Llwch asked him as he sat next to him, his back to the board so Helena couldn't hear. "Can't you feel that you're finally on the right path?"_

" _She's a recent victim. This isn't right. Besides, I just want a friend." He looked over and realized that his former companion, with her flowing gown and copper curls, was speaking to Helena in much the same way._

" _How about a lover? A companion for life?"_

" _How about we start as friends?" Helena's eyes met his, filled with humor and secrets shared, and her smile slowly grew._

" _Bahhhh. Correct the profile. Then you'll see."_

**BAU Headquarters  
Quantico, VA**

The apple tree was up to three inches and had two sets of true leaves. He was a little afraid to go near it at this point.

Thankfully it didn't look like they were going out of town the rest of the week. He had no idea why, and didn't care. He was chalking that one up to luck and to maybe not wanting Hotch to fly until his ears had a chance to heal from their recent assault. And with all his other paperwork done he was planning on digging into Father Paul's journals, finally.

He also had an idea, but it was of the insane sort. The kind of thing that would make the entire team want to shove him out the airlock of the plane in frustration. But more and more as the day went on it was beginning to seem like the only practical solution. It seemed utterly right.

At some point after lunch Garcia appeared in the conference room where he had the journals laid out, trying to sort the correct order. "Can we talk?"

"Sure, Garcia," at this point he needed the distraction.

She sat, clearly nervous, twisting her fingers together. "Reid, have you been keeping in contact with Helena Owens?"

Spencer didn't look up, the better to control his features. "Define keeping in contact."

"You know what I mean. Hotch asked me if you'd come to me looking for survivor resources."

Oh hell. "I meant to. Why?"

"So you have been seeing her?"

"I've just been trying to help her get on her feet." That was all it was, right?

Garcia waited a moment. "You need to stop."

Oh for God's….he looked up, finally. "Why?"

"Look, Reid, I love how you can be so kind and so there for people and you want so hard to find the truth and make it right, but right now she is in so much pain and so confused and she is desperately looking for a…a knight in shining armor to ride in and make it all better and make sure it never happens again and unless you're all in and can be there for all of it all you're going to do is make it all happen all over again when it doesn't work."

He sighed. "All I'm trying to do is help her get a roof over her head and get some kind of therapeutic support. I'm not doing it myself, I know better. Besides," Spencer managed a bit of a smile, "Hotch already gave me this lecture."

"He did?" Garcia asked. At his nod she smiled a little herself, "Well, good."

"Yeah, but you're up to something, aren't you," said a familiar voice behind them.

They turned and spotted Morgan in the doorway. Spencer tried to give him his most innocent blink, the one that had worked across a thousand poker games. "What do you mean?"

"All right," Morgan shut the door behind him and came over to sit down. "I don't want this going all over the unit."

"What, you don't trust them?" Garcia asked.

Spencer turned to her. "Do you?"

There was quiet for a long moment. Then Morgan spoke up again. "Look, I am glad Emily is back, do not get me wrong. And I get what they did. I get what Hotch had to do. It was the job, I know that. If I was in his shoes I probably would have done the same thing. They are the best agents out there and I am damned glad that they have my back every time we get in the field." There was another long pause. "But…"

"But I thought we were more than agents." Garcia filled in. "I thought we were friends."

There was another long pause. From the look in Morgan's eyes Spencer made an educated guess. "Heard about CheetoBreath yet?"

"About five minutes ago, like it was no big thing." Morgan replied. "Like I said, they're the best team I ever had the privilege to work with, but right now I'd rather not have them all up in my business."

"I know what you mean." Spencer agreed. "I guess I'm not the only one with trust issues."

"Even paranoids have real enemies." Morgan replied. "Okay, you remember the Riley Jenkins case?"

"Given that my parents were conspirators, uh, yeah." Spencer said.

"Okay, so we figured that your subconscious was trying to process something out, that led us to Gary Michaels' killer. Well, sometimes I do something like that."

"Your dreams tell you things?" Garcia asked. "How come you never told me before?"

Morgan looked over at her with one of his slow smiles. "I don't always tell you everything my goddess."

"Tease."

"So what do you dream?" Spencer asked, curious now.

"Usually Gideon, of all people, telling me when we got the profile wrong, we're heading in the wrong direction. I always figured it was my head trying to sort something I didn't realize I saw or something I was picking up on from somewhere, something like that. And Gideon, father figure, I get that. But last night it was different." Morgan rocked in his chair and messed with his coffee cup a moment. "The name Llwch mean anything to you?"

Spencer just blinked as Garcia's jaw dropped. "I've been calling Gideon that in my dreams for three nights straight. Did he say anything about the blessed raven?"

Morgan was nodded, "And how we got part of the profile wrong five or six years ago; and how Myrddin was a bastard who never did listen."

"Reid's been having the same dream!" Garcia was all a flutter. "It's a sign, I'm telling you."

"I recognized the name Myrddin as the Welsh spelling of Merlin. Llwch is also a Welsh name, but we can't place it." Spencer sighed in frustration. "I've heard it before, I just can't place it."

"We think Merlin might be referring to Rossi." Garcia told Morgan.

"Those two never did get along." Morgan agreed.

"Did he tell you to find the profile we got wrong because the blessed raven was selfish, ask the Oracle a question, then take the profile and the answer to the Hunter to get the profile corrected and find out who the UnSub really is?" Spencer asked

"No, he told me you were going to do something stupid today, but that it was the right thing to do and the Oracle and I needed to help you do it." Morgan replied. "It was the only way to protect the witness because the UnSub was still out there. He said we wouldn't like it, but do it anyway." He shook his head. "Those dreams have never been wrong, but this is the first time they involved other people. Now, I don't know what all this is about but if my subconscious has Gideon telling me that there is an UnSub still out there and I've got to protect the witness then I'm listening. So, go on, spill it. What stupid stunt are you planning to pull?"

"You know, putting it that way…." Spencer sighed. It wasn't like he was going to be able to hide it forever. And they had had enough secrets and lies in the team; he did not want to contribute to the list. "Helena Owens," he admitted. "She's been so sheltered all her life; I really don't think she'll do well in a shelter. And even if the Bishop can track down her parents' life insurance money, with no papers and no credit, she's not even going to be able to get into a hotel. I…I was thinking about offering her my spare room."

Morgan nodded. "Yep, it's stupid. I don't like it."

"Yeah, that could be so bad." Garcia chimed in. "You could get in way too deep there."

"I know. I know." Spencer replied. "But I have already managed to find her ample opportunity for ongoing therapeutic support. I don't intend to be the only one there for her. I know I can't be the only one helping her, but I want to do what I can and she does need a place to stay."

Morgan sighed, noisily. "And if there is an UnSub still out there this would keep her off the grid at least a little while longer." He looked over at Garcia. "And you and I can play watchdog, make sure he doesn't get in too deep."

"Oh my love, I think the term for that is chaperone." She replied.

"Garcia!" She could not be serious. Spencer glared at her. "I would never take advantage, surely you know that."

"Oh yes, I do sweetie. I was teasing you. If that girl is safe with any man she is safe with you." Garcia patted his arm gently. "When is she getting discharged?"

Spencer checked the clock. "In about two and a half hours."

"Oh, God, that is like, no time. Does she even have anything to wear home from the hospital?"

Spencer shook his head. "As far as I know she has three books, my business card, and a voucher from the Diocese for the Good Shepherd thrift store. That's it."

"Well at least that's a fun place to shop." Garcia smiled.

"You said you have a spare room." Morgan said. "Got a bed?"

"No," Spencer admitted. "I had hoped she'd be in the hospital over the week-end, I was going to get one. You know I haven't even talked to her about it yet."

"Well you go talk to her, Garcia and I will go get a bed and some dinner. We'll meet back at your place."

Well, the poker game truth was going to come out sometime. Sigh.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter fifteen**

**Washington Medical Center  
Washington DC**

**Spencer**

The plan was simple. He went to the hospital with a measuring tape in his pocket, courtesy of Garcia. If Helena really didn't have anything to wear out of the hospital except the filthy dress she'd worn in he was to call their Oracle and get walked through taking measurements, then with her size in hand, Garcia and Morgan would stop somewhere and find her something to start with.

When he got to the hospital lobby he was relieved to be able to text the others to go to Plan B, straight to finding a bed. It appeared that someone somewhere, probably some of the nurses, had managed to come up with something. Old scrub pants, from the looks of it, and a white t-shirt and someone's worn, plain canvas sneakers, and her hair tumbling around her face and shoulders. All that and she still managed to look like a queen sitting there, albeit an uncomfortable one with her arms wrapped around herself. It only took him a moment to sort it, then he pulled off his jacket and handed it to her, pulling out his badge to explain the gun while she pulled the jacket over her shirt, offering a rather needed extra layer of coverage. "Thank you." Helena said with a smile.

That bit of chivalry handled, he dropped into the sear across from her. "Hello. Why are you out here?"

Helena shrugged. "They said I could go, they needed the room. So I was waiting for you."

"I didn't call, how did you know?"

She gave him a very patient look, like that was the silliest thing. "Grandmother told me. She said Llwch spelled it out for you, finally." She smiled a little. "She said you're having a bit of trouble catching on here."

That was the third time she had done that, "Llwch." He pulled a borrowed tablet out of his bag. "Who is he to you?"

She tipped her head, as if surprised by the question, "Your father, of course. Who is not dead, I don't think, but there's no other way to communicate right now. I don't know why."

He pulled up a selection of eight pictures on the tab, ones that he had pre-programmed before, all older middle-aged white males. "Which one is he?"

"That's him." She skipped right over the picture of William Reid and pointed to Jason Gideon.

"Right," they were all on the same page, then. He put the tablet away and sat back. "So I'm supposed to protect you, which I would do anyway. But I'm having a little trouble with what I suspect is your Grandmother's definition of taking care of me. Which…" He caught himself quickly at her sudden look of oncoming crushing disappointment. "…is not to say never, but regardless of what some kind of magical matchmaker may want, we did just meet and you have been through a lot; so no, not that. Not yet at any rate." And whatever is doing this can go to hell. Some things will not be compromised.

She considered this, clearly still a little disappointed. "Well, I can cook, more or less, I know the basics. And I can clean and do laundry, of course. And I can, um, play chess and discuss philosophy." She chuckled a little at the last.

"And I have a spare bedroom." Spencer knew that Llwch, whoever that was, had not meant for this deal to be light housekeeping in exchange for protection, but that was a deal that wouldn't compromise his principals. If they became lovers in the future it would be on their terms and because of how they felt, nothing else would do. He vaguely wondered how many times he was going to have to repeat that. "So we can do that. But it doesn't seem like enough for you."

Helena shrugged. "It's enough to get started. I don't even know what else there is. All I've seen for myself in the past twelve years is the convent and this hospital."

And there was so much to the world. He realized then that he was going to delight in showing her. "Okay," he got up and reached for her hand.

She took his and they went out together.

**The Ponce de Leon Co-Op**   
**4514 Connecticut Ave NW**   
**Washington DC**   
**#512**

He had, for simplicity sake, skipped the Metro for once and brought his car. As a result he was able to bring her home quickly and simply. She marveled at all of it, from his car to the lobby to the elevator, something that baffled him. She may have spent the past twelve years in the medieval world, much of it isolated from everything, but before that she had lived in modern America. So why did cars and elevators fascinate her now?

About half way up his phone rang, "Yeah Garcia?"

"Okay, so I have a thing about women smelling like fruit salad. What kind of flowers does your girl there like?"

"She's, um…." Not my girl, he wanted to say, because it was technically true. Wasn't it?

"Just ask her. Wait, they made their own soaps, didn't they?"

Spencer sighed and asked. "Yes, they did, why?"

"Okay, she's getting lavender. Be there in a tick." She rang off.

"Who was that?" Helena asked.

"Garcia, she and Morgan are friends, they're….." He noticed her smile. "You know who they are, don't you?"

"Only through you, Grandmother hasn't shown me anything about them. I can't wait to really meet them though."

"Well, they're looking forward to meeting you." Out of the elevator and to his front door and in and he noticed how she was grinning. "What? You've been acting amazed about everything since we left the hospital."

"Of course I have." She looked over at him as if it should be obvious. "It's been dreams and fantasies for so long and now I finally get to see all this for myself. I'm finally free and here and it's all real. At least I think it is, sometimes I swear I'm still dreaming." She nodded and held up a hand. "I talked to the psychiatrist at the hospital; it's some part of recovering from trauma. I get that much."'

"Finding a good psychiatrist out here might be a good first thing to do." He pointed out as he dropped his bag and jacket in the usual spots. "You know, I know you said your…Grandmother has been letting you watch my life, and…I'm actually all right with that."

She turned from where she was looking at the picture of Henry's christening on his mantle. "You are?"

He shrugged. "I don't have anything to hide. And if it helped I'm…glad."

She looked over and for just a moment he could see how hard it had been for her. Trapped, all alone, hurt by her only contact with the outside world over and over. She was trying so hard to move forward, he realized, but it was all still there. "Thank you," she told him at last. "I remember the first time you held Henry. You told him you could get him into Caltech with one phone call."

"I can." Damn it, it had been just him and JJ in the room at the time. And JJ wouldn't have told anyone. Hell, she had very nearly just finished giving birth; it's unlikely she even remembered. "I intend to, if he wants to go."

Helena grinned at him and kept making a circuit of the room. "This was on your mother's bed," She said, stopping at the couch and just touching the quilt there. "You come home and watch…Star Trek reruns and fall asleep on the couch under it after you leave Jerry's place." She tipped her head and looked at him. "You always seemed so lonely then."

I was, he realized. "I thought I was alone."

"You weren't. Not really."

For some reason that brought him comfort. "So, the kitchen is in here through the dining room. Complete with a gas stove and running water." Medieval convent, right? "And the bathroom is in there."

She looked at said bathroom with utter longing. "Oh, that I must try. You have no idea."

"Hot baths, the ultimate luxury, I'll have to show you how to use the tub, it's a bit unusual." Spencer had to agree with her about that one. And then he flashed to the Roman Baths of his dreams and how she was also dreaming and…"Um, that's not what I meant."

What he was beginning to think of as Helena's up from under look did not help. "I know. You had that new one put in, because of your knee." She moved off to the dining room to inspect there a bit.

She'd seen that as well, which meant that…. Okay, now he could feel his ears burning. "Um, I believe that's called peeking."

She peeked at the small cabinet of china he had taken from his parent's house before he sold it, what had survived from his mother's rampages. "You said you didn't mind." She reminded him. "You have nothing to be ashamed of, you know."

Well, he was no Morgan and he knew it, but that was still a comfort to the ego. Now he had never joked about such things with a woman before, it wasn't in his nature, but he remembered what Jerry said about Lila and Morgan about Austen and this just felt so right. He turned and busied himself with allegedly putting his bag away, not quite able to risk saying it and looking. "Yes, but I didn't get a turn."

Thank heaven she laughed at that. "You couldn't I had to stay dressed all the time. And besides, no one looks good shivering." He could feel her pause a moment, turned and caught her giving him a Significant Look across the dining room, "Unless you want one now?"

Oh hell. Now his ears were on fire. "Um, no…I…ahhh."

Her smile said she was teasing as she moved on. She was peering around the room, finishing her circuit at the kitchen, the small eat-in nook. "And that is the cup you take to work most of all. Oh!" She spotted the apple seedling on the windowsill and her eyes started to fill. "Oh, you saved her! Or at least part of her. Oh, Spencer!"

"I know. I'm glad it worked, those apples were amazing." She must have had to anthropomorphize it, to deal with the fear of that tree coming down on her head. "I didn't realize they sprouted that…" His explanation died in his throat as she reached out to gently stroke the seedling. At her touch, before his eyes, before his  _eyes_ , it grew another inch and put out two more leaves, as if it was reaching out to her in return. "H…how did you do that?"

"I don't know. She always liked me." She smiled a little. "That's probably why she threw the apples."

"Threw the apples?" But there was a knock at the door.

Sigh


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter sixteen**

**The Ponce de Leon Co-Op**   
**4514 Connecticut Ave NW**   
**Washington DC**   
**#512**

**Spencer**

The knock at the door was Garcia, who came in with a bag of toiletries for Helena, a message for Spencer to get downstairs and help Morgan move the bed up, and word that they had run into Rossi when they went to pick up the toiletries and that he was coming with lasagna. After the introductions he left Garcia and Helena with some boxes to pack up the research he had spread out over a folding table and a bookshelf in the sunroom-cum-den and went to help Morgan with the bed.

As predicted Morgan did not believe that he had not cheated in that poker game. After a few attempts Spencer gave up trying to convince him.

Rossi arrived with lasagna, garlic bread, wine and an Italian sparkling water, using the excuse that Helena probably wouldn't want wine, which she didn't, and which allowed Spencer to graciously decline in solidarity with his guest. He also brought one of those pre-paid credit cards, instructing Spencer to get Helena what she needed. "Tom insisted." He told him, "He wants to do what he can to make this right."

Over dinner Rossi regaled them with stories of adventures of a foodie in Italy, and left them all laughing as only a master storyteller could. But toward the end of it they could all tell that Helena was getting tired, probably from more human interaction than she'd had in years, so when Spencer gently suggested that she could retire if she wanted she did so, straight to his special tub where she planned to use up as much hot water as she could.

Thankfully the others were here to distract him from that.

It wasn't until he got back from finding her something of his to borrow and showing her how the tub worked that Spencer realized something. His dining room table was round. It was especially noticeable once the dinner had been cleared away and they brought out Helena's case file and Garcia's laptop. "No wonder this seemed like the only kind of table to put in here." He said.

"Yeah, you need to get away from work." Morgan pointed out.

"So, someone bring me up to speed." Rossi asked.

They did, with the dreams and the genealogist and what they had learned so far. Spencer only left out the part where she had been spying on him and the part about the apple tree. No one would believe him about the tree, and he did not want the kind of teasing he would get about being spied upon. Rossi settled back and digested all this. "It's definitely different." He said at last. "I can understand respecting your subconscious, especially after the Riley Jenkins case."

"Well, the shooter in the original accident and Mother Marion were definitely two different people." Morgan said. "Granted, it takes more than two to make a conspiracy."

"But not to make a team," Rossi replied. He looked over at Garcia. "Were you ever able to track down anything on Marion Prestwick?"

"I finally got work back from the charterhouse in Switzerland, they thought Mother Marion had been elected in house, they didn't send her. And her paper trail disappears a week before she showed up at the convent." Garcia told them. "Now I will say that whoever set her up with this false identity did a very, very, very good job. I probably wouldn't have been able to crack it had I not seen the one for a certain Lauren Reynolds."

That had them all stopping a moment. "You think she's CIA?" Morgan asked, "Maybe Interpol?"

"No, this doesn't have the hallmarks of either of those, but it's that kind of good. You're looking at someone with spooky connections there."

"Okay, so it is a conspiracy." Rossi settled it. "We don't know who Helena Owens is or who is after her or why, but odds are they probably don't have what they want yet and will still be after her for it." He looked over at Spencer. "Still want to keep her here?"

"I think I have to." He replied. "She's also been dreaming about 'Llwch', and earlier she picked Gideon out of a lineup under that name. Whatever is going on I think we're all stuck with it."

Rossi digested this a moment. "Llwch and Myrddin, you said those were Welsh names? And Helena said her family was from Wales by way of Ireland?" nods all around. "Well, any UnSubs with a Welsh name that translates to raven?"

"Oh, we are slow today." Garcia looked it up. "Okay, given that we all know how good online translation could be, words for raven in Welsh include reibia, reibio, reibiwch, rheibia, rheibio, rheibiwch, bran…" The Hammer of Knowing whapped Spencer so hard he literally winced and yelped. "What?"

"Bran, Bran the Blessed, the Blessed Raven! Of course, how could I be so blind?" Okay, now that he had that much things were starting to come in more clearly. Spencer looked up and realized that they were all still lost, although Garcia was typing. Oh, how could they miss this now? "Okay the literal translation of 'Blessed Raven' into Welsh is Bendigeidfran, but in English he's usually called Bran the Blessed. He was a legendary Welsh king, ruled about two thousand years ago, although they haven't been able to precisely date his reign. He was the first to make a peace treaty between Wales and Ireland; he supposedly fought the Romans at the time…"

"…And was supposed to be the original Fisher King!" Garcia finished for him, triumphantly.

"Who?" Rossi asked.

Spencer and Morgan spoke in unison. "Randall Garner."

"Who?" Rossi asked, patiently.

Morgan took it. "Randall Gardner. It was a case we had, what, about a year or so before you rejoined the unit. This guy actually came after us."

"Yeah, Sir Keighf," Garcia muttered darkly. "He seduced me through an online game to get access to the FBI servers to get everyone's personal information."

"He was actually a friend of my Mom's." Spencer added. "He was in Bennington for a time, and had access to all her journals and the letters I wrote to her. He had kidnapped his only daughter and sent us on a Grail Quest to find her."

"Yeah, and we found her all right. You got set on fire that time." Morgan reminded him.

"It really only singed my pants. Thank you for literally saving my backside that time." Spencer replied.

"Yeah, well next time there's a bomb say bomb."

"Wait, a bomb?" Rossi asked.

"Yeah, he had his daughter trapped in the cellar. When we were about to rescue her he set off…" Morgan petered out as he made some more connections.

"Well, hello." Garcia murmured. "Maybe that's the reminder."

"No, I think it's more than that." Spencer replied. "Morgan and I both worked that case, and both of our subconsciouses are telling us that we missed something." Or something like that, maybe.

"Yeah, but what?" Morgan sighed. "It's a closed case. The entire family is dead. And we did get the girl out."

"I don't know." Spencer shook his head. "How was Garner selfish, he wanted us to save Rebecca?"

"I don't know."

"You don't have to." Rossi pointed out. According to your dreams you had to do three things, Number one; ask the Oracle over here a question."

"Yeah, how far back could I dig into Helena's family tree, to see how far back the conspiracy goes?" Garcia said. "I couldn't go back any further, but I set him up with a good genealogist. They take time to work though."

"The point is, the question was asked." Rossi nodded. "Number two; identify the profile that the selfish blessed raven made you get wrong. Now we know that's the Randall Gardner file. Number three, take those two files to the Hunter and she'll tell you who the UnSub is."

"Okay, who is this Hunter?" Morgan asked. "I don't know any Hunters, or hunters for that matter."

"Not Hunter," Rossi corrected him. " _She'll_  tell you; a Huntress." He looked over at Spencer, "Diana."

"So you think I should take the Garner file and Helena's genealogy and discuss them with my Mom?" Spencer considered this. "Well, she is an expert on Grail mythology and she was Randall Garner's friend. I suppose it couldn't hurt." So long as she was stable that day.

Rossi nodded. "And in the meantime, how do we keep her safe from a threat we know nothing about? If Garcia was right, we're talking spy shop level of threat here."

"Well you're security system here is good." Morgan commented. "Just never let her go out alone."

"I don't want her to be trapped in the house." Spencer argued. "She has a right to a life."

"Oh, no, this is only temporary." Garcia reassured him. "Once we know where the threat is coming from I can set her up with an alternate identity, no sweat. We'll send them chasing shadows on the other side of the planet. Then she can go do what she wants."

"But in the meantime it would be better for her to be a homebody; especially when you're out of town." Rossi told him. "Garcia can come by and help out if needed when we're out on a case, and we can probably recruit Kevin as well. But she stays home and only goes out with one of the three of us." He looked over at Morgan, "You in?"

"You know it." He looked over at Spencer.

"Of course," it was probably the safest course, but it still rankled. "Garcia, can you help set us up with a computer? I can at least give her that much?"

"Oh, you know I can sweetie."

"And while we're at it." Rossi finished off his wine. "You can help her figure out what she wants to do with her life."

Spencer slowly smiled. "That's the part I'm looking forward to."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter seventeen**

**The Ponce de Leon Co-Op**   
**4514 Connecticut Ave NW**   
**Washington DC**   
**#512**

**Spencer**

After everyone left Spencer went to find Helena. He'd told her that if she wasn't up to coming back out after she could rest in the privacy of his room, right off the bath, and that was where he found her, sitting on the edge of his bed, towel drying her hair and working out the tangles. He'd loaned her a pair of his boxers and a t-shirt to wear to bed, and now he could tell that she was both a few inches taller than Lila, and easily built as lushly, if not a bit more so.

The thing was, he honestly never thought of girls. He had been tempted a few times, Lila surely, Austen, but ever since high school he'd been leery of the entire thing. He'd actually been quite glad when both of them had ongoing cases and so he couldn't get involved. Instead of thinking of women he'd concentrated on his studies, exhausting himself with intellectual work before bed as often as he could. It all just felt so wrong somehow, so crude and unpleasant. He'd forced it out of his mind until Tobias introduced him to the drug, and then the craving for that had taken over and he'd just fought all the harder. But then he'd had that first dream of the baths and then he'd met Helena and now he was finding himself thinking about it, about her, about that, more than he ever had in his life to date. She was all pale skin and her curls tumbling down and he could tell from here they would be silk in his fingers. His shirt was a bit too tight for her, and at this light, from this angle he could see just a hint of coral pink, which would probably be even softer than her skin which already looked to be impossibly soft, and would probably smell like lavender and taste like honey and…."I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

"I was saying thank you." Helena chuckled as she pulled the towel out of the way, having chased the last few drops from her hair, "For such a decadent evening. I only wish I could have enjoyed more of it."

"Decadent?"

She paused in tugging out the tangles to look at him, "The food? I don't think I've ever tasted anything so delicious. And the stories Dave told; I knew he wrote books but I didn't realize he was so funny. And then that bath, you have no idea how good that felt. And now I get to sleep in a real bed. Really, you're treating me like a queen, and I am extremely grateful."

It would be so easy, he thought as he watched her from the doorway, to add another, deeper, richer layer of pleasure on top of it all. If I kissed her, he thought, if I kissed her like Lila kissed me, something along those lines I just know somehow that she would be willing. And the bed is right there and it would be that easy and she would be so warm and… "Speaking of bed we should go make yours up."

"All right," she padded along after him, smiled as she had the first time she saw the small sunroom, now her bedroom. "I'm grateful for all the windows too. I don't think I could bear to be in the dark again."

No, she wanted the light. She wanted sunlit warmth, maybe a garden somewhere, green grass and bright flowers and all that clear light around her, the better to see every detail as she writhed in passion under him and…. "You're welcome. Oh, Garcia and Morgan are coming around again tomorrow. Garcia said she wanted to take you out shopping, and Morgan is coming because he said I would need backup."

"What does that mean?"

"I have no idea, actually. Can I ask…do you actually talk to your grandmother?"

"You mean, like, when I'm dreaming?"

"No, I mean more consciously."

"Sometimes, if I ask before I lay down sometimes she answers. Why?"

"Just curious about how all this works;" he looked around. The bed was neatly made, what few things she had were stacked tidily on and over a chair until they could get her a dresser, everything looked quite squared away. Except…"Would you like a nightlight?"

"Do you have one? Because, that would be wonderful," she turned a deeper set of rose in the cheeks.

"I hate the dark too." He turned and headed to where he kept a few handy tools, light bulbs and such, to dig out a spare. It distracted him from wondering how far down that blush went. He came back with one of the simple, utilitarian ones he kept around and plugged it in for her. "All right, if you need anything just knock?"

"Sure," Helena stood there, looking up at him expectantly. "Good night, Spencer."

He could kiss her. He could at least kiss her, taste her lips to see if they really were as soft as fruit and as sweet and… "Good night." He turned and carefully shut the door behind him.

Just talk to her, just talk. It made no sense but at this point he was willing to try anything. He went back to his room on the other side of the apartment, carefully shut the door, and then turned to address….nothing. "Look. I don't know what's going on and frankly I don't care. I respect that for some reason I've been elected to protect her and help her get a life, I'm okay with that. But not only has she just found freedom from years of hell; we just met, and I am not going to tumble her into bed right off. I demand that she have a chance to at least begin the healing process and to start on a path toward making a life for herself and that we have a chance to get to know each other as people, not as pawns in some kind of mythic guessing game. So back off my libido already, it is not going to happen!"

With that he threw himself into bed.

* * *

" _I really don't understand why not." Gideon/Llwch told him. "Granted she had to receive her training in a less than ideal manner, but she's been trained for her role, much like I trained you. Well, my equivalent trained you, more or less. At least he got you started."_

_They were standing off to one side of the bath chamber. The mist was less dense here, and they were out of the way and would not intrude. "Your equivalent? Gideon?"_

_Gideon/Llwch nodded. "He was to you what I was to your equivalent." He chuckled, "More or less."_

" _More or less?" yes, Spencer was getting irritated with all of this. And he did not want to spend every day and night around Helena wanting to do nothing more than rip her clothing off and have her. That was simply not right. "Why don't you just start explaining yourself clearly? Show me your real face, for one, and then explain this more or less bit."_

_Gideon/Llwch sighed, "Always so literal." But he shifted somehow, in the manner of dreams. Before the shift he was a rugged, bearded, older version of Jason Gideon, right down to the black t-shirt and cargo pants, a denim work shirt over top. Now he was in the tunic and leggings of the High Medieval period, his black hair curled past his collar, and his bright blue eyes blazed out of a face perhaps too fine boned and pretty to belong to a man, or perhaps a human. "I was blood-related to your equivalent; you and my equivalent are bound by different bonds. The effect is the same." Llwch told him. "I cannot be more specific. There are rules about this sort of thing. You should thank your friend Rossi. He lit a candle and asked for guidance on your behalf, that's how we were able to find you again. We lost track because the Raven was so selfish."_

" _Rules," Garner, Spencer recalled. "This is a quest then? I supposed I should have known that. I always considered Gideon a surrogate father; I suppose my equivalent was your son."_

_Llwch nodded. "You've almost got it, you know. Gideon trained you well; you're more than able to handle the task before you." He stopped to be certain he had Spencer's attention, "As is she."_

" _What does that mean? She said she was learning from her Grandmother, does that mean…?"_

" _That we are related? If so the connection has been lost in the mists. No, my Mother's line granted me the ability to return, as did her Grandmother's. She is of that blood, in order for the line to continue that is one of the four strains that must breed true. And so she is born and bred for this."_

" _For this?"_

_Llwch gave him a frustrated look, "For this." He waved his hands and the mists parted so that he could see all that was going on around him, so that the knowledge of what was happening poured into his mind. It was not just sex Spencer realized, there were many who were just listening, or allowing those who needed to cry or finding the simple comfort of a good meal and a soft bed. But the physical side was a big part of it, clearly. "The bloodline of her grandmother breeds true and she has been trained to her part in things" Llwch continued, "You do what you do out of respect, but out of that same respect do not put it off too long. It will only frustrate, and with my mother's blood in her as well it will go badly come the spring."_

" _Your mother's blood?" Spencer could feel the Hammer of Knowledge tapping away at the inside of his skull._

_Llwch nodded. "My son was the first ever good enough to truly capture the heart of one of her blood. And so they were wed and our bloodlines mingled."_

_The first good enough; Llwch and his son and the descended of…of a Temple Priestess and….the Hammer of Knowledge suddenly cracked him hard, and now he knew. Not who the UnSub was, but why this was so very important. He turned to the man beside him, knowing now. "Llwch Llenlleawg," he said, with the respect worthy of the man to whom he spoke. "I am not worthy of this honor. The things I have done…."_

_Llwch Llenlleaeg put his hand on Spencer's shoulder. It was cool and heavy and far more real than any dream ought to be. "No man is to blame for being fooled by the Others. You have turned away from their lies and proved yourself strong. You rescued her and, in so doing, proved your virtue. Now claim and protect your reward."_

" _My reward," he turned and looked across the pool and spotted Helena looking back and the man next to him clapped him on the shoulder and…._

* * *

Spencer's eyes popped open. He was lying in his own bed, the morning sun coming through the windows, the scent of coffee brewing from the kitchen. He lay there while the Hammer of Knowing tinged his skull like broken glass.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter eighteen**

**The Ponce de Leon Co-Op**   
**4514 Connecticut Ave NW**   
**Washington DC**   
**#512**

**Spencer**

As Spencer laid there, absorbing what he had learned his phone rang. If this is a case, he thought, I may have to quit.

It was not a case. "Llwch Llenlleawg?" Morgan asked him.

"You saw all that?"

"You and shifting guy in the… I do not want to know what that place was, all right. I'm on my way over by way of breakfast. Do you want bagels?"

"Get enough for three." Spencer replied. This was going to involve Helena as well, it had to. To that end he got out of bed, put on his glasses, and went to find her.

Helena was in the kitchen, eyeing the coffee pot. "I'm trying to decide if I want to try it or not." She told him. "The stuff in the hospital was horrid, but the nurses said it was because it was in a hospital."

"Don't," Spencer suggested. "It's a strong stimulant, and I think you ought to be thinking clearly this morning. Besides, it would just set you up for a lifetime of dependence, which you might not want. I have some tea, it's considerably milder." He found the tea, realized she already knew where it was and where to find the kettle. "Morgan is coming over with breakfast." He told her. "I had a dream last night. Morgan saw it too."

When she heard that she turned blush rose again. "Do you think he saw me?"

"Possibly, but if I'm right he's our backup which means he ought to know everything. I trust him completely."

Helena nodded. "All right then."

Spencer sighed. The trust she was putting in him was enormous. He could only hope to live up to everyone's high expectations. "I have to go make a phone call. Listen for the door, but check the peephole before you let anyone in, all right?" She nodded and he went to make that call. It was early but then the person he was calling had always been an early riser, "Hi, Mom."

"Oh, Spencer," Diana Reid always did sound so happy to hear from her son. "Well this is a surprise. Why are you calling, you know I hate talking over the phone."

"I know, you think the government might be listening in. I work for the government, you know."

"Yes, but you and your friends would never do anything evil for them. I have every faith"

This might work better, he though, if I played along a bit. "Thank you Mom. We try not to. We're working on a case right now and so you know how my friend Garcia knows all about the government electronics systems? Well, I had her sweep the line to be certain it was clear."

"She can do that? Well then why don't you call more often? Oh, well, if you did it too often they would notice something was up. Better to just save it for emergencies. So, you're working on a case…."

"And I needed some help because you're the best expert I know in High Medieval mythology, and we need some help to unravel this puzzle."

"Oh, another quest? I remember the one Randall sent you on, that poor man."

"Yeah, something like that. I remember how you always called me Sir Percival."

"Well, he called you Sir Percival, insisted on it, really. He would get agitated, even violent if I didn't, so finally I just did to pacify him. I always thought your friend Morgan was more like Sir Percival, raised by his mother after his Knight father was murdered, always sought justice as a form of vengeance, a bit too much of a taste for the ladies, he did fall for Lady Blanchfleur in the end, but still noble and virtuous enough at heart to be a Grail Knight. No, you were always Galahad to me, perfect in courage and gentleness, courtesy and chivalry, knowledge and virtue."

"Thanks Mom." Gah, Mom always did make him blush like that. "What about the Grail?" Spencer asked her.

"What about the Grail?" Diana Reid laughed lightly at her son. "You have to clarify, dear."

"Was the Grail…it was supposed to be a cup?"

"The cup that caught the blood of Christ; of course some legends say that was a metaphor, that the Grail Maiden was the true Grail."

"The Grail Maiden?"

"Yes. Some legends say that Christ and Mary Magdalene were lovers. That she had to flee Jerusalem after the Resurrection because she was pregnant and because Peter was jealous and Paul was power hungry and they would have had her stoned for a prostitute."

"Because she worked in the Temple…?"

"Of Minerva, probably, a place of healing of sorts; so according to most of the legends Joseph of Arimathea took her to France. I always thought that was silly though."

"Why?"

"Because France was right across the Mediterranean from the Middle East; people always think of these places as separate countries well set apart from each other. But at the time they were part of the Roman Empire, which wasn't that much larger than our country. If cavalry could ride from Washington DC to the Oregon Territory and back using the same technology why couldn't the Romans? No, Joseph of Arimathea would have taken her to Wales, to the Bendigeidfran, the king back then."

"Why?" Spencer felt a little silly asking the same thing over and over, but it was all making sense now.

"Because they were brothers-in-law," Diana explained patiently. "Some things never change. Bron was married to Joseph's eldest sister. What a better place to hide Mary Magdalene than at the furthest reaches of the Empire and under the protection of the local king?"

"Well, that does make sense."

"Mmm-hmm, according to that version of the legend Mary Magdalene placed a geas on Bron and all his descendents to protect her descendents until the Second Coming, whenever that would be. Which lasted right up until Galahad, supposedly Galahad was so noble and chivalrous that the Grail fell in love with him and the bloodlines mingled. I don't know how that worked, given that in that version of the myth the Grail only had daughters."

"Only daughters?"

"Yes, it was said that a son would be the Second Coming. The girls were carriers, hence the metaphor of the cup."

"Ahhh, that makes sense then." Spencer's head was reeling. He needed to process. "Okay, I think I need to get off the line. Garcia is starting to signal."

"Oh, well then you'd better." Diana agreed. "I hope that was helpful."

"It was Mom, thank you. I love you."

"I love you too, son. Bye."

Spencer hung up and just sat there, staring at nothing for a time.

Oh boy.

* * *

He left the bedroom, finally, to find Helena and Morgan at the small table in the kitchen, settling in to a light breakfast of bagels and cream cheese and fruit. Spencer stood in the doorway and just stared at Helena for a long moment. It doesn't really matter, he finally decided, no matter what her genetics she's still just a woman, just a person, someone I consider a friend. That is what matters. The responsibility is the same, regardless.

They noticed him, finally. "There you are." Morgan said, "Anything?"

"I called Mom. I think I've got part of it." He came over and sat; coffee, bagel. "Unfortunately I don't have the specific UnSub yet, but I think I have at least the type down, which will help. And there's part of this that I am honestly still having trouble processing through. But I think we can accomplish what is needed without too much of the supernatural aspect of things."

"I would prefer that." Morgan admitted. "Give me what you can."

"Do you remember way back before the Garner case, I told you I was having nightmares, and you went to Gideon and Hotch?"

"Yeah, that's a sign of stress, nothing to be ignored."

"Yeah, well, later on I started having a different nightmare. I think…we can agree we were all in the same dream last night?"

"Well," Morgan sat back. "I was in some kind of big cavern with a pool in it and a lot of mist in the air. I saw you talking to Gideon, only then he became someone I didn't recognize. And from the look on your face you figured out who that was. And I saw you there as well." He said the last to Helena.

Helena turned pink. "Did you see what I was doing?"

"It looked like you were just sitting there." Morgan told her. "I saw what everyone else was doing. Who is Llwch already?"

Spencer took a deep breath. "Lancelot du Lac."

Morgan looked at him after a long moment. "And it just gets weirder. Go on.

"Last night is not the first time we've shared a dream space, or not the first time Helena and I've shared a dream space. Apparently we've been either observing each other during REM sleep or during the first stage of sleep known as the Alpha wave state. During this state the mind is very relaxed and open, which might be when whatever this is is taking advantage to communicate. I think that for years now during that phase of sleep we've been observing each other's lives."

"So you were watching her?" Morgan asked.

"It's easier to prove if we start with her watching me. We tend to have very erratic schedules, so at any point if she slipped into an Alpha wave state long enough she might be able to catch me actually doing something." Spencer turned to Helena and pondered. "Can you remember any time when you saw Morgan doing something, something I might not know anything about?"

Helena considered. "Well, there was the night you had Anthrax."

Morgan looked over to him, a shocked look on his face, "Reid!"

"I didn't tell her, I swear. Just hang on." Spencer replied.

"Yeah, but that's not that hard of a guess. Any one of us would have stayed by you."

"Yes, but you're the one who did." Helena replied, "All night with a bible in your lap. You went through all the Psalms, one after the other, and started back over before Dr. Kimura said he was pulling out of it."

Now Morgan looked shocked for a totally different reason. "No one knew I did that." He protested. "No one else was there."

"Grandmother and I were." She replied. "We sat that vigil with you."

Morgan blinked at her for a long few moments then turned back to Spencer. "All right, I buy it. And you were watching her? Why didn't you say something, we would have helped you sort it like we did with Riley Jenkins."

"Because I thought it was a stress-related nightmare, like I did with Riley Jenkins." Spencer replied. "I was trapped in a pitch-black room with a frightened victim I couldn't rescue. That's also why I was so afraid of the dark and mildly claustrophobic."

Morgan nodded, "Can't blame you. So why didn't you think it was real after Riley Jenkins?"

"Because Gideon told me it was just stress. Hubris was one of Lancelot's great failing. And because Garner messed up the one clue The Powers That Be were trying to give me that might have caught my eye."

"The selfish blessed raven?"

"Remember how I always told Mom all about our adventures? She likened each of us to a Knight of the Round Table, wrote about our adventures as quests. At the time that the Garner case came up I hadn't visited her for years, I didn't know she was doing that. "

"Yeah, I remember. She called you Sir Percival."

"No, she called  _you_  Sir Percival, at least at first. She didn't start calling me Percival until Garner insisted to the point of becoming violent. Before that she referred to me as Galahad. Garner didn't want us to actually find Rebecca; he didn't even think of her as human, let alone as his daughter, he wanted the Fisher King wound, his guilt, healed. The grail was supposed to be the reward for healing him, that's why he set the bomb off when I couldn't. His intent was always selfish and that's why he needed Percival and not Galahad. Percival heals the Fisher King, Galahad saves the Grail. "

"And that would have changed things how?" Morgan asked.

"I would have gone in knowing that I was supposed to be Galahad, I trust my Mother on that one. But Hotch carried Rebecca Garner out of the fire, and only Galahad can save the true Grail. If I had been thinking Galahad when Hotch carried Rebecca out either Mom was wrong or…"

"…or that wasn't the true Grail." Morgan finished.

"Right, then if I had made the connection with another girl trapped somewhere…"

"…you would have looked into it and we might have found her sooner." Morgan nodded. "That makes sense, except the Grail is supposed to be a cup, not a girl."

"That depends on which version of the legend you look at. A number of them claim that Mary Magdalene carried the Grail out of Jerusalem, some say it was the cup that caught the blood of Christ, and some say cup was a metaphor for her womb."

"Okay, now that is going to hurt my head." Morgan admitted.

"I know. I'm going to suggest that we separate the Grail from the Grail Maiden, that is to say that there is a cup, and there is also Mary Magdalene's descendent who is the one who carries it. We can never actually know who the father was, really, even if it was….that then she would be carrying that DNA, it wouldn't be expressed at all."

"That can happen?"

Spencer nodded. "Look at hemophilia; it's a chronic problem among the royal houses of Europe because of all the inter-breeding. It's carried by the females, but is masked by the second X chromosome, so it only expresses in males. It is entirely possible this could be carried the same way, but it's too soon to confirm that. For now like I said, we look at the Grail and the Grail Maiden as two separate entities."

"Okay." Morgan said. "So where's this cup?"

"Well, the wooden cup of a carpenter wouldn't have lasted this long, not intact." Spencer got up and went to rummaging around under his sink. "Helena, you said that cross you wear is a family heirloom. How old is it?"

"Oh, I don't know." She replied. "I know that Kat gave it to Maria when she turned fourteen."

"After puberty, I bet." Spencer came back with an evidence swab and a small spray bottle.

"You keep an evidence kit at home?" Morgan asked.

"You never know. I think the Cup is right here." He opened the swab, gently rubbed the cross around Helena's neck, and then sprayed the swab with Luminol. He cupped the swab in his hand so they could both see the glowing blue.

"Uh-huh. I could argue that blood could come from anywhere, but given everything else that's going on…" Morgan shook his head.

"Now even if you take the idea of that particular strand of DNA off the table, the Grail Maiden would still be a person of interest. She'd been the descended of three royal or noble lines, a highly ranked Priestess from the Temple of Minerva, the royal line of Wales, and The line of the Lady of the Lake."

"How do you get all of that?" Morgan wanted to know.

"That place we were in last night was a Roman temple, dedicated to healing so probably to Minerva, goddess of medicine and wisdom, their rites were supposed to heal what we would call PTSD. She was also one of the few goddesses worshiped throughout the Empire, including Britain and the area now called Israel. Some of the legends of Mary Magdalene say that she was a Priestess in one of those temples who fell in love with and comforted Christ before the crucifixion. In the apocryphal Gospel of Phillip Mary Magdalene was listed as Christ's companion and He was known to kiss her on the mouth and love her before all of the other Apostles. After the resurrection she was the first He appeared to at His empty tomb. She fled the Holy Land with Joseph of Aramithea, who was a friend of Christ but not a follower, he was wealthy and powerful in his own right and had a family and probably had a lot of reasons not to be jealous."

"And so could be trusted." Morgan agreed. "So you're thinking that picture that landed on Rossi's desk was something out there giving us a head's up?"

"From what I heard last night he asked the deities for guidance. I also think she's been the one facilitating this connection, the one Helena's been referring to as Grandmother." He cleared his throat. "I believe she was, ah, in the pool last night."

"They could have sent a memo." Morgan shook his head. "How did you get Welsh royalty into it?"

"Joseph of Aramaithea and Bron the Blessed were brothers-in-law." Spencer replied. "It makes sense that Joseph would have tapped his family to help."

"Some things never change."

"According to that part of the legend Mary Magdalene put a geas, or a binding onto Bron and his descendents, that they would protect her descendents until Christ returned. Bron had two sons, ummm, Alan and Joseph I believe." Sometimes it really did feel like he was accessing the data banks in his head. "Alan was the ancestor of Percival, and Joseph of Galahad via his mother Elaine of Corbenic. Supposedly Galahad was the only one virtuous enough to carry the Grail and so either the Grail or the Grail Maiden fell in love with him and married him."

By now Morgan was used to tracking his logic streams. "Okay, that gives us a temple priestess and Welsh royalty in the mix, we're not touching the third one yet, what does the fourth mean?"

"Galahad's father, Lancelot of the Lake, was the son of the Lady of the Lake, the priestess of Avalon, the Isle of Apples. Um, if the other one was making your head hurt, this might make it explode. Let's just say it was another noble line for now."

Morgan nodded. "I can do that. And Lancelot would have trained Galahad, or should have, and so he's been riding you. So given all the weirdness going on we're thinking Helena here is the Grail Maiden?"

"I believe so, which makes you and I Grail Knights." Yes, he had to admit it, that part had him both tickled and terrified. "If it's any help last night Lancelot said I was trained enough to be more than up for the job, I would assume you would be past that." Spencer chuckled a little. "If I'm right the last two Grail Knights were a hydroelectric engineer and a parish Priest, so we might even be overqualified." He caught a smile on Helena's face. "What?"

She'd been listening quietly to all of this. Now she cut right to the heart of the matter. "You're my Knight." She pointed out.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter nineteen**

**The Ponce de Leon Co-Op**   
**4514 Connecticut Ave NW**   
**Washington DC**   
**#512**

**Spencer**

Spencer felt his ears catch on fire.

Morgan looked at the two of them, "Now, don't go starting that until later." He teased gently. "So how does all this translate into reality?"

"Well, Mother Marion was trying to get her pregnant. I think she believed the version where the Grail Maiden is the Grail."

"Yeah, but why wait for a little girl to grow up? Why not go after the mother, she was still young."

Spencer took a deep breath, this was the hurtful part. "Christ was born of a virgin."

Morgan sighed, "Which also explains why they kept her in the convent."

"And why she was so mad at the boys." Helena said.

Spencer turned to her, "Which boys?"

"There were these two boys who jumped the fence one day. I thought they just wanted to talk, but they got very close and then the apple tree started dropping apples on their heads so they ran off. After that Mother Marion had the wire put up."

"How old were they?" Morgan asked.

"A few years older than I was at the time; I was sixteen, they were maybe eighteen, nineteen."

"Just wanted to talk," Morgan shook his head.

Spencer agreed, they probably jumped the wall on a lark, maybe to steal some fruit or whatever else they could pocket. But finding a beautiful, sheltered virgin inside those walls probably prompted intent to do more than just talk. Wait. "Did anyone see what happened?"

"Sister Alma and Sister Josephine, it took quite some time for them to calm down."

Spencer looked over at Morgan, who nodded. Those were numbers two and three of the nuns who died of suspected arsenic poisoning. Mother Marion was cleaning up the witnesses. "Whether we're right or not, someone else knows this and believes it enough to kill for it."

"Obsessional stalker," Morgan sat back with a whistle. "Those are a pain in the ass."

"But it makes the most sense. An obsession passed down from generation to generation; obsessed with controlling the Grail."

"But we don't know who it is yet."

"No." Spencer sighed in frustration. "All I can think of is that it's somehow related to how the Grail was smuggled out of Europe. I think it ties in with a legend about a "black clan" that brought a treasure, the Grail presumably, to Ireland from Wales during the famine to help, but then had to move it to America to keep it safe. I'm hoping that if we can get the name of Helena's ancestor, of that clan, that will jog Mom's memory and she'll remember who was looking for them"

"And that is going to take time. So what do we do in the meantime?"

Spencer blinked at him and turned to Helena. "I'm sorry for speaking about you in the third person." He told her, before turning back to Morgan. "I think we go shopping today. Look, no matter what kind of family she comes from Helena is still a person with the same needs and rights as anyone else. She still needs to heal and get back on her feet. Now something out there has decided I'm the best man for the job and you're backup. I'm willing to work with that. Are you?"

Morgan looked at Helena and considered it. "All right, I'm in. No one deserves to get messed with just because of their ancestry. But what do we do about keeping her safe?"

Spencer chuckled. "Why are you asking me, you're the expert in obsessional crimes?"

"Oh, jeeze, thanks."

There was a knock at the door. It was Garcia. "Hey. What did I miss?"

"We've had a break in the case." Morgan told her from the kitchen. "We think we've figured out what we're dealing with?"

"So you have an UnSub? Already?" Garcia sounded impressed.

"No, but we have a good lead on a profile." Morgan nudged out a chair as Spencer brought more coffee and Helena shifted things for a space, "Obsessional, probably paranoid stalker."

"Oh God, those are the worst." Garcia landed in her chair. "How did you get there?"

"Through a long, convoluted supernatural process; speaking of," Morgan leaned back to look at Spencer. "Figure out a way to get there from where we were leaving out the dreaming and supernatural bits. If this UnSub does stick his head up again I don't want to have to explain that part to Hotch and the rest of them."

Spencer thought rapidly for a moment. "We're dealing with a stalker who is obsessed with the idea of the Holy Grail. He believes that if he can gain control of someone with the right combination of ancestors in their family tree he will obtain some kind of mystical powers. We believe that Helena's family tree has that right combination of ancestors which is why the stalker has focused on her family. Because this obsession is so strong it's been passed down over at least three generations, possibly more and now encompasses a family or team of stalkers, Marion Prestwick being a member of that team."

Morgan nodded. "That will do. Now just figure out how we got there and we're good."

Garcia turned to Helena. "Okay, hiding from a stalker this good means you are going to need a totally new identity. You can keep your first name, that's it."

"Can you do that?" Spencer asked.

"Oh, for a good memory you forget." Garcia purred at him. "I was one of the top five most wanted hackers for years. Give me coffee, a bagel and thirty minutes and I'll have her identity up and running."

"But how about fake ID's?" Morgan asked.

"No sweat. Stand there." Garcia got Helena up and stood her against the wall, "Smile." She took a quick picture, picked up her laptop bag, and headed for the dining room to set up. "ID photos never look good. I'll get her in the system, have her apply for replacements and she'll have a wallet full of workable ID's in a week, you watch."

While Morgan and Garcia went to work at the dining room table, Helena came back to the kitchen table and Spencer. She sat and looked at him quietly for a moment. "Do you believe it?"

Spencer thought. From what he had seen of her she certainly seemed to possess the innate charm, beauty and sensual grace that would underpin a natural Temple Priestess. It remained to be seen if she had or could develop the listening and communication skills, but he'd bet she could. She might or might not be descended from some sort of royalty, but given how her family had acted toward each other, he thought that they believed it. And the magic of all this, the dreams and the apple tree, he'd be willing to bet it grew so large and so sweet simply because a descended of the Isle of Apples was trapped beneath it, all of that spoke of the third leg of a bloodline. The fourth would be impossible to tell, but given the other three…."Yes, I believe it. I don't know if you're the Grail or the Grail Maiden, but I think it doesn't matter. You're you, not your bloodline. But…" Oh, now what was the proper wording? "…either way, I do freely offer you my protection, M'Lady; I do offer you my sword."

"And I accept." She said with a smile, taking his hand. With that simple touch the world seemed to fall into place.

* * *

After a few moments Helena looked up at him. "You know, you've asked me what I want to do with myself, and think I have at least part of an idea."

"Okay."

"Well, it was always so important to the sisters that I was going away to college. It was something most of them had wanted to do and never had the chance. They were all so thrilled by it…" Helena sighed. "I want to get my degree, not only for myself, but for them as well, to honor their wishes."

Spencer considered this. "You'll need to get your high school diploma first, but given what you studied that's hardly a problem. And it will give you some time and space to decide what else you might want. I think it's brilliant."

She smiled at him, "All right then."

"Okay, you need a last name." Garcia called from the kitchen.

"Um, I don't know." Helena replied.

"Hey Reid, Galahad and Percival were what to each other?" Morgan asked.

"Cousins. Distant cousins. Why?"

"And you said she's most likely descended from Galahad?"

"It looks that way."

"Cool." Morgan turned to Garcia. "Helena Morgan." He turned back to Spencer. "This makes her family; do not mess with my cousin."

The two in the kitchen just laughed.

"How old are you and where are you from?" Garcia continued.

"Um, I've kind of lost track…" Helena confessed.

"Okay Reid, you're what, twenty-nine? Let's call her twenty-five, say she's from….Summerlin, Nevada. Suburb enough to be boring, close enough to Vegas for you to coach her. Okay, we'll need a District ID instead of a license because you cannot drive, Costco card, library card…." Garcia muttered to herself as she created the ID.

Spencer suddenly had a flash of brilliance. "Garcia, can you list her as a graduate of the high school there?"

"Yeah, that's part of it; pick the biggest so she could have been lost in the crowd. Why?"

"Can you enroll her in a university here? Um, maybe George Washington?" He turned back to Helena. "They offer a broad range of online courses and while I don't teach there I know enough professors to arrange for you to do most of your work from home if you need to."

"Ohhhh, brilliant idea, can she carry it off?" The Oracle asked.

"Given what she studied with the sisters, probably. I don't know if she should be a freshman or a sophomore though."

"No problem, I'll set it up so that you can hack in and set up her classes after you figure it out." Garcia went back to work.

"If you need to go in for a specific class or exam I'll work my schedule around to take you." He mused. "We just need to set up the right accounts." Spencer looked over at Helena. "Remember, if anyone asks you're exchanging room and board here for light housekeeping, because it's safer while you finish your degree."

Helena smiled at him, "Of course."

Morgan chuckled. "I don't buy it."

Spencer frowned. "What part?"

"The housekeeper part," he was still chuckling. "It's called a girlfriend."

Spencer sighed. "No, it's not. Not yet," it came out before he could stop it. Damn it. He went back to the kitchen to clean up.

"Oh, so we have time to set up a pool?" Morgan called after him, still chuckling.

Helena was looking over Garcia's shoulder by then, and Spencer was cleaning up the coffee pot. "Done!" Garcia sang out. "Helena Morgan, twenty-five from Summerlin, Nevada, undergrad at George Washington, welcome to the real world."

"Just like that?" He heard the wonder in her voice. "Wow, I…thank you!" There was laughter, and if you could hear a hug… "Thank you." That must have been for Morgan. Then she was tapping him on the shoulder to get him to turn. I should not do this, he thought, I should not. "Thank you." And she was in his arms, warm and full and perfect there. Only human, he thought, as he was surrounded by the scent of lavender and apples and honey, I am only human and she may not be, not entirely and I will hold out but I cannot deny everything, not for too long. I am only human. That was the excuse he gave himself when she pulled back and looked up into his eyes and clearly felt it too. Only human, that was the excuse he gave himself when he leaned down just enough and kissed her. Her lips were that soft, as it turned out, and they tasted that sweet and even though it didn't have the intent of Lila's kiss it was ever so much more intense for being that kind of right. When it broke she looked up at him again and he knew they had crossed the first of many lines and she knew it too. She leaned her head against his shoulder and for a long moment he just held her there.

Morgan, having watched this from the doorway, turned to look at Garcia. "You won that bet too easy." He told her.

"Oracle of Quantico, baby." She replied with a smile.

* * *

In the time it took Spencer to shave, shower, comb his hair and change into something other than sweats and a t-shirt they had run into another snag. He came out to find Helena on the couch, her hands on her stomach, trying to slow her breathing while Morgan coached her. "What happened?"

"She asked Garcia where we were going. I thought she could use some advanced warning to prepare given how long she was locked up. Garcia found a video of the mall, and that was enough to start a panic attack going." Morgan told him. "I think our plans for the day may have changed."

"I'm sorry." Helena managed to get out between breaths. "There were just…so many…people…"

"No, it's all right. We should have thought of that." Spencer sat down beside her, only to have her lean into his side. Where she couldn't see Morgan silently prompted him to put an arm around her shoulders, which felt rather exactly right. "I don't like malls myself, to tell you the truth. But we have to get you some things."

"Yep, plan B is in the works." Garcia called from the dining room. "The power of the commercial net is at our command. I'll measure her for the sizes, we'll have her take a look at what she wants online, and then I'll go pick it up. All you have to do is make more coffee."

"You don't mind?" Spencer asked.

"What, shopping with someone else's money? Please."

"And I'll go get whatever she wants that isn't clothing, like a wardrobe for that room." Morgan said.

"But I don't want…to be stuck…in the house…forever." Helena protested.

"You won't be." Spencer told her as he rubbed her shoulder a little. "I promise. But why don't we start with someplace quieter?"

She sighed and nodded and after a few moments relaxed again. "All right. Give me a moment to go wash my face."

Once Helena was out of the room Morgan turned to Spencer. "See, this is why she needs a psychiatrist. None of us even thought of that."

Spencer nodded in agreement. "I have a call in to one I know, she's worked with similar issues before and will make house calls. But while we're at it, Garcia, maybe you can narrow down the options a bit? Sometimes when you've been restricted for so long having too much choice can be overwhelming."

"Can do." Garcia said. "Do you have any idea what she might like? Like, what she might picture herself in?"

Spencer was about to say no, but then considered. "When I've dreamed her in normal clothes I've seen denim skirts and t-shirts. Does that help at all?"

"Hmmm." Garcia typed and considered. "Skirts, this kind or this kind?" Spencer pointed. Garcia typed. "Shirts, this kind or this kind or this kind?" Spencer pointed again. "God, she is going to be boring." Garcia huffed.

"She's spent the past twelve years in a cut down nun's habit." Spencer pointed out as Morgan started laughing. "What did you expect?"

"Yeah, but if she goes that way her wardrobe is going to be more boring than JJ's." Garcia peered at the screen. "How much do you want to bet I can do all of it in one place, and it's one of the few places where I don't shop?"

Now Spencer was smiling. "I really don't see what the problem is, when I saw her like that I thought she looked lovely."

"Yes, but you're smitten." Garcia pointed out.

"I'm what?"

"Smitten."

Spencer blinked a little. "Um, smitten is the past participle of the verb 'to smite'. The first definition of that is to attack with a heavy blow. I don't see how that applies."

Morgan looked over at him. "What's the second definition?"

"To defeat or conquer."

Morgan nodded. "There ya go."

While Spencer digested this Helena came back out and started looking over Garcia's shoulder. "Oh, that's nice."

Morgan looked at Spencer. "Come on; let's go measure for the furniture. Let them shop."


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter twenty**

**The Ponce de Leon Co-Op**   
**4514 Connecticut Ave NW**   
**Washington DC**   
**#512**

**Spencer**

Eventually Morgan and Garcia left, each with their own respective list. It amazed Spencer how much was needed to get one woman set up with what they considered a normal life. In fact Garcia had been grumbling that there was not nearly enough on the list. Once she left he caught Helena smiling, even chuckling a little. "What?" He asked as he sat on the padded ottoman of a coffee table, across from where she was sitting on the couch.

"Oh, I'm remembering life in the convent and the idea of crucial poverty. We didn't even call our clothing our own; it was a blessing from the sisters, on loan. You had one to wear, one to wash, that was it. You got to keep your own toothbrush and hairbrush and underwear, and that had to be plain. Garcia had me make up that huge list." She rubbed her temples, a sign he was coming to recognize, one of on the verge of being overwhelmed, "So many things. I'm used to only calling bits and leftovers my own."

"Maybe you'll feel better when you get some tools and things to do." They had decided that instead of trying the big mall they would try a small, quiet needlework shop and a quiet dinner today. A smaller step, and the one concept she seemed to have a handle on at this point. "Maybe something familiar will help you feel more grounded." He reached over and rubbed her arm gently, a quiet touch to keep her from dissociating, if she was going to.

"I hope so. That's why I asked Morgan to pick up a binder and whatnot to start working on my studies again. Get some order back in my life, if I can. It's just that I've been looking at life, at you life for so long now and I've wanted to be out in it and now I'm afraid that I won't be able to leave the house…"

"Hey, no, you will. Wait and see; we just need to start smaller." He smiled. "Besides, how many times did you see me at the mall?"

He finally got her to laugh a little. "Never. Good point."

There was one thing that was bothering him. This talk of being part of his life brought that little ball of issue up to the front of things. "There is one thing I wanted to go over again now that we're alone." And given that kiss in the kitchen. The memory of that still had his head spinning. "What were you doing in that dream last night?"

She turned rosy pink again. He was rather grateful that The Powers That Be had backed off his libido, and the twang that curled around him at the sight of it was light enough to be easily controlled. "Studying, learning; that's part of it, you know, of this little deal."

That's what he was afraid of. "No, it's not."

"But…."

"No. No one should have to do that in exchange for safety and protection if needed. No one. Ever. So no, that will not be part of this deal."

"But…"

"I don't care what they told you, that is not something I will be a party to. Housekeeping for room, board, that's all. I offer you my protection freely, no strings, no trades."

"But…"

"And while we're at it," He looked up into the center of the room. Just talk, right? "No more dreaming like that for me, and no more lessons for her. From here on out we go it on our own. That's it;" time to nip that problem right off.

"But…" Helena sighed impatiently.

"But what?" What more needed to be said here?

"But what if I want to?"

"What if you want to….?" Now it was Spencer's turn to be confused.

"What if I want to? What if I want to try...that sort of thing? I've been…watching and…studying for years now, I know how good it's supposed to be, at some point I actually would like to try."

She had this combination of assurance and innocence, when it came to the subject of sex. It was remarkably attractive. Part of him wondered if part of this whole Protect The Grail thing was to keep that attitude out of the hands of someone who would tear it asunder. "Well, if you want to. I mean, there's nothing wrong with wanting to try. All I'm saying is that I might not be the one you want to try with."

"Why not?"

"Well…why? Why choose me out of everyone else on the planet?"

"Well, I don't know everyone else on the planet."

"Exactly!" Finally they were on the same page, Spencer felt a momentary victory. "You should talk out everything that happened with a trained professional so that's not influencing your decision for one thing and you should be able to look after your own needs so you don't have to consider trading the one for the other, and you should be able to choose for yourself, not have some supernatural matchmaker say you have to choose me. You should get out and meet other people, other…men and then decide if …I'm really the right one for you."

Helena settled back on the couch and took a long breath of frustration. "Let's take this one point at a time. First off, if you all feel it's that important that I talk about it with someone first, then I will. I acknowledge that you might know more about these things; I have no problem with acceding to your request."

"Wonderful. Thank you." Now we were getting somewhere.

"Second, given that it might take several years before I actually reach the point of a career where I can support myself, and that both my mother and grandmother were contented housewives, I may well not wait until I can meet all of my own needs. But I agree that it is bad to trade the one for the other, and so I will begin and continue my studies to reach that goal."

Okay, he had to concede that much. "Good enough, so long as we agree that that's not part of the deal of you staying here."

She nodded, "Understood. I just hope you like my cooking."

Spencer managed a smile. "I'm sure I will." Good, they were in near to ideal agreement so far.

Helena, however, was not smiling. "It's that third point that I must take issue with. Tell me, how many men must I meet before I can pick one? Ten? Twenty? A hundred?"

Spencer began to sputter. Somehow he got the feeling that this argument was about to go off the rails. "That's not what I…"

"Do Morgan, Hotch and Dave count? They are all single after all. And if I meet however many men you specify and still want you, are you going to accept that, or send me out to compare you against another batch? And then another and another, until you finally come up short?"

"That's not what this is about." It occurred to him that this might actually be a fight. "It's about respecting your right to be in control of your own sexuality."

"What makes you think I'm not?"

"Because, you've never had a chance."

She smiled at him. "You really think that? You think I couldn't have told them no at any point in the process? You have. You just did."

"Do you really think someone else could have gotten you out of there?"

She frowned a little as she considered the question honestly. "I don't know. I know it was a hard fight on their part; it might have taken someone else longer. Or perhaps less time, I don't know."

"Someone else?"

Helena took a deep breath, "You're not the only one they showed me. You are not the only brave and virtuous man out there, you know. I chose. Just like my mother chose Sam and my grandmother chose Paul. Just because there's a divine matchmaker involved, that doesn't mean we don't get to choose." She smiled at him again. "I chose you."

That, the entire nature of that, floored him. "Why?"

She chuckled a little. "Um, Theodore Bryar? Samantha Malcolm? Owen Savage? Amanda? Every other supposed villain who was really just sick or a victim or both that you managed to talk down without hurting? No one else had that mix of courage and compassion and intelligence. Once I learned that no one else would do for a protector and companion. And given that, you honestly are my first choice for someone to get to know better."

Yes, Spencer had to admit that he was flattered; flattered to the point of disbelief. "I am not all that. I am not as good as you think of me. I'm not." He had to move, to get some distance, so he got up and started restlessly pacing around the room.

Helena just shook her head. "I'm afraid I disagree."

No, she was wrong. She was so very wrong. "You don't know what I've done." She didn't know the mistake he had made, she couldn't. If she had there was no way she would have thought so highly of him.

"Ah, that's what this is about." She sighed.

Suddenly it hit him chilling his soul. He had thought once that there was nothing in his life he wouldn't have wanted her to see, but he realized now that he was wrong. He stopped and looked at her as time stood still in horror. "Please tell me you didn't…." Please tell me you didn't watch me get high, oh please.

She was quick to reassure him, could probably tell from the look on his face what he was thinking. "No. Even if Grandmother had allowed it, I wouldn't have. I could tell how you felt about yourself then, how it was. But I don't condemn you for it, I won't. Do you know what I saw? I saw someone who never learned how to feel really good inside his own skin. I saw someone who went out to fight the demons every day, who made himself feel even more miserable just to do the right thing. And Tobias knew that because he faced his own demon and he recognized that you didn't know how to feel good, just like he hadn't all those years. So he taught you the only way he had ever learned, which turned out to be the only way you ever learned as well. And when you realized how much that method was hurting the people you care about you gave it up through sheer force of will. You accepted feeling a little bit miserable all the time just so you wouldn't hurt them. And when you were shot you accepted taking a lot of pain just so you wouldn't let them down. I cannot condemn you for being the strongest man I have ever seen, Spencer, I just can't."

He couldn't say anything. He couldn't say anything for the longest time because she was right. He hadn't gotten clean for himself. He'd done it because the team needed him and they needed him clean and he would not let them down. That was why he still craved it so dammed often, because if it had just been for him he would have kept using, kept feeling that kind of good. That's why they say you have to do it for yourself, because if you do it for someone else it won't last. But there was nothing else, no other way to feel just that good, so…. "What are you saying?"

"That I honestly like you. I've formed a good enough opinion to want to give this a try. And that I want to help if I can. That's why I agreed to learn all….that. I like you and I want to help."

He chuckled a little. "I always thought sex should come after love." That is what they were talking about, wasn't it?

"Define love. The Greeks had four words for love, storge for the love between parents and children, philla for the love between friends and within a community, eros for physical love, and agape for something more."

"I thought eros was supposed to come after agape."

Helena nodded. "Grandmother said that's why they came to hate her kind."

He considered a moment. How did he actually feel? What were his beliefs? He'd never actually had to articulate them before, the two times they came up the FBI had stepped in before he'd gotten that far. "I don't think I could put eros before agape."

She smiled up at him. "If that's what you want then I accept that."

"I don't think you should put eros before agape either."

She looked at him as if she had just caught him in a mistake. "Ah, now who is trying to control my sexuality? Sorry, you don't get to decide how I feel about such matters."

Well she had a point there, her beliefs were her own, and rather more clearly thought out that he had expected. "Good point. But I do think you should be careful who you articulate them with, they make the potential for misunderstanding and abuse rather high." He winced a little, but if she was going to navigate the city she would have to understand. "For example, those boys, who jumped the convent wall, probably didn't want to just talk. And they wouldn't have let you take the lead like the…women of your grandmother's era seemed to do."

That seemed to confuse her a bit. "Oh. That…could have been bad."

"Yes, it could have been. You do need to be careful." No wonder Father Paul left her in the convent. It wasn't just about the stalker out there. It was his turn to chuckle a little. "All talk of a stalker aside, now I understand one reason why the women in your family have always been protected."

She laughed at that, "Because of our odd little family traditions?"

"Something like that. Doesn't it bother you that your Great-great how ever many great Grandmother is showing you that kind of thing?"

"No, why should it? When you asked about the whole first name thing I asked her, and she explained that back then women would of course become pregnant in the natural order of things. Boys would be sent off to become soldiers while girls would stay and become the next generation of priestesses in the temple. They were raised by the community, never knowing exactly who their parents were. That's where the family tradition of first names comes from. Now she did say that in our time my mother and grandmother didn't study so…explicitly, but the women in our family have always been open and frank about such things, or so she said."

He just looked at her. There was something rather wonderful about that, about not having to untangle the convoluted knot that was flirting in the modern world. He rather thought he'd like someone who was willing to discuss things in a straightforward way. But…wait…"Where did we start this conversation?"

Helena leaned back to remember. "You wanted to make it quite clear that sex for protection was a deal that went against your value system. So you were offering protection for free and room and board for housekeeping; that was it. And that I needed to at least work toward being self-sufficient so that I never have to trade that sort of thing for support. Right so far?"

"Yes." Exactly.

"And I accepted that. And you wanted The Powers That Be to back off and let us sort this relationship on our own from now on. And I believe I agreed with that."'

"Yes." That was important too.

"And you made it clear that you wanted to wait on any physical relationship until I've had a chance to go through some therapy and heal. I don't think that's entirely necessary, but I am willing to concede to your education and experience."

"Thank you."

"The part we were going over was that you thought that I should evaluate you in the light of other men, because you were quite certain that you would not prove worthy upon comparison. As I told you, I already have and have found you more than worthy."

Now Spencer's ears were burning. "Thank you. I'm…impressed myself." That's what was killing him; the more she talked the more he was attracted to her, with no supernatural intervention needed.

She turned blush rose once again. "Thank you. What we finally came down to was that you firmly believe that agape should come before eros. While I disagree, I respect your beliefs and am willing to wait to see if agape develops here." She held up a finger to derail his next thought. "And before you say I ought to be free to find someone who feels the way I do, I consider you worthy of waiting for. I don't want to go looking at other men."

Okay, they had the conversation back on a much less emotional keel. That was better. "If that's what you want. But I don't want to keep you waiting forever either."

She chuckled a little. "So how long do you want to wait to have this conversation again then?"

Interesting question, what were the important criteria here? "Well, Llwch did say something about it not being fair to you to wait too long. In that conversation he did say something about the spring. Mean anything to you?"

She thought a moment then shook her head. "No, but I was underground for so long, I had trouble telling what time of day it was sometimes, let alone what season. The only way I could tell was by catching you in outdoors in Washington."

"Hm. Well, around here March is when the spring usually starts, that's when the cherry trees start to blossom. And…" Oh. He took a deep breath. This one was so hard to admit. But at the same time, he could tell her. Her and Jerry, the only to people he could talk with openly about this. He had two now. "Four months, nine days; at a minimum. That should put us in the first week of March."

Helena considered this. "All right. Why?"

It was hard. It was harder than he had expected. "That's when I get my five year coin." He finally admitted. "I want to prove that I can do it before I try anything larger. That matters to me." You may think I'm worthy, Spencer thought, but I need to prove it to myself.

She sighed with some gentle frustration. "You don't need to continue to feel miserable, you know. You paid your penance when you got between a victim and a gun knowing that there would be no pain meds for you if you did get shot, at least in my opinion."

He shook his head. "Someone had to. No one else was there, they had all gone to be with the son or help Hotch."

"No, no one had to. It was the most right, noble thing to do, but it didn't have to be done. And then you certainly didn't have to come back so soon and cause yourself even more pain to be there for them. Just because no one else realized what you were doing, it doesn't mean it didn't count for something."

It does now, he thought. It had been enough to know that he did right; it had been enough for years. But then what happened with Emily and being betrayed...he had needed to hear that. It helped. "Thank you." Yes, that meant a lot. He took a moment to put his control in order. "All right, accepted, but I'm still not comfortable with revisiting the idea of a sexual relationship before I hit that five year mark. And I know that wasn't the only way Temple Priestesses had of helping people heal."

She laughed outright at that one. "Is that a challenge then?"

She really did have the most delightful laugh, "Um, sure, if you choose to accept it."

"I think I do."

"Well, all right then. Do we have the terms of an agreement?"

"I think we do."

He offered her his hand. "Done?"

"Done," but she took his hand and pulled him into an embrace.

She still felt warm and good and perfect in his arms. That spark of heat was certainly still there. But this embrace mattered so much more to him for was the embrace of a friend.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter twenty-one**

**Spencer**

Eventually Garcia and Morgan returned. Helena had a chance to change out of her donated scrub pants and his old sweatshirt while Spencer and Morgan moved the new wardrobe thing into her room, and set her up with a nightstand and lamp as well, and Garcia set her up with her own cell phone and small laptop. In a plain, full skirt and some soft colored shirt, with her hair in a thick braid over her shoulder and some curls escaping to frame her face Spencer thought she was utterly lovely.

Garcia just sniffed, "Professor and teaching assistant. Now it makes sense to me."

They ventured out to a shop Garcia knew about, yarn and needle work tools and fabric. Helena watched the world avidly from the safety of the back of Morgan's car, but when it came time to actually venture out into it she clung to the safety of Spencer's arm. Thankfully the shop was fairly quiet, only a small handful of people in a fairly open, brightly colorful space. "There's so much color." She murmured to him. "I'm used to threads, not color everywhere."

"We don't have to stay if you don't want to." He replied, quietly.

"I want to try." She insisted. "I miss being able to create things already." But she was standing there with her eyes closed, almost burying her face in his shoulder.

Hmmm, "Well, where do you want to start? I'd suggest but I have no idea."

She considered, "Needles."

Thankfully the place was extremely well organized. As Garcia wandered off to do her own shopping, and Morgan followed her just to tease, he led Helena over to the rack of needles, and nudged her until she was looking. "Okay, just focus on this. Try to shut out everything else. What do you remember working with?"

Patiently, carefully, he coaxed her into looking, then choosing. Needles, scissors, thimbles, something called pounce, carefully up to things like fabrics and threads, with brighter colors and the shimmer of silk. When he found himself clueless he called over Garcia to help figure out what she was talking about and where it might be. Then Garcia called over the owner. Eventually he found himself pushed to the edge of the little group, then let go as at least in this small corner of the world, she found she could stand on her own. As he was standing there watching Morgan came up to him. "Nice." The older man said.

Spencer turned to look at him, "Really?"

"Yeah, she's clearly competent here, a little more confident now, she actually can function. It's a good first step, Dr. Reid."

"Thanks, now what?"

"You ever go shopping with more than one woman before?"

"I've never even gone with one before."

Morgan chuckled. "Now we wait. This is why it's better to go with a wingman."

* * *

By the time they were done it was time for an early-ish supper at the Emerald Dragon. A quiet booth in a darker spot kept Helena from being overwhelmed. They sat and told stories, mostly for her benefit, and for the pleasure of having fresh ears for them all.

After supper they went home, and Garcia and Morgan went off with pledges to see Spencer a bit later on Monday. Assuming no emergency arose he was going in late so as to help Helena with her first therapy appointment. Once Spencer locked the door and set the alarm he turned to find Helena drooping where she stood. "Are you all right?"

"Tired," she admitted. "That was quite a full day for me."

"So go to bed early." He told her. "It's understandable."

"I think I will." She stood there looking at him a long moment. "This is going to be awkward until we sort it, isn't it?"

"What to do at bedtime?" Hug her, kiss her, and just say good night? Gah, he didn't know, "Probably."

Without a word she took one step closer, stretched up a little and kissed him on the cheek, hugging him lightly in the process. "Good night Spencer."

He instantly caught her in a one armed hug. This works, he thought. "Good night."

* * *

**Helena**

_As usual she was met in a corner of the bath chamber. The woman who met her was considerably shorter than her descendent, with copper red curls held back from her face by a rough, gold circle, gold and garnet earrings, her silk stolla clasped at her shoulders with gold fibulae, and gold bracelets around her arms. Unlike most women of her time, in this place she wore no ribbons to define her gown, nor did she bother with the palla, the shawl most women draped around their bodies and heads for modesty, nor did she even bother with a tunica intima, a slip beneath the thin silk. No, in this place she did nothing to hide her beauty. "Hello darling." She said as she came up and looked the younger woman over. "Really?"_

" _Hello Mary." Helena looked down and found that in her dream she was wearing the clothing she had chosen. More than once she'd arrived in a stola much like her Grandmother's, except heavier linen and with a slip underneath, in the bright red of the apprentice, not to be touched. But now she was wearing the clothing she had chosen, a simple denim skirt, a pale lilac t-shirt, and plain, little blue shoes. She had wanted just black and brown, simple, but Garcia had insisted on a red pair and a blue pair as well. They were rather nice after all. "I like it, it's comfortable." She could not imagine jeans. She'd spent the past twelve years in skirts, having the light material of those pants she'd been given crammed all up between her legs had been uncomfortable enough. She could not imagine it with the much thicker cotton of blue jeans; she wouldn't dare walk for the friction._

" _It's boring."_

" _I'm going to knit myself a sweater vest, and a shawl." That should help dress things up, she thought._

_Mary sighed hopelessly; took her granddaughter by the arm and began to lead her away from the bath chamber and off to the private areas. "I was going to apologize, but you're making me think it's not necessary."_

" _Apologize for what?"_

" _For him!" Mary sighed in exasperation. "I know he needs to be loyal and virtuous, but not that virtuous. You're the one who's supposed to want to take it slow, not him."_

" _Now stop. Don't you go trying to influence him to change his mind. I love him just the way he is."_

" _So you've said." Mary led Helena down the wide main hall, and then down one of the smaller corridors lined with smaller, curtained cells. "Still, it would be more reassuring if he were to at least allow himself to dream of you. It's going to be like trying to seduce Plato himself."_

_Allowed himself. That was the part that Spencer had yet to understand, once you started listening, while those who had gone before could teach and influence and show, much of this was internally driven. In the end, they were your dreams. "He's given his word that he will protect me, that's more than enough. Let us sort the rest of this ourselves. He wants to wait for agape to develop." They turned down another hallway, past a guarded gate and into an area where men never came. Helena paused and turned to her grandmother. "Didn't The Philosopher you loved insist upon that?"_

_Mary smiled and sighed as remembered pain and wonder came into her eyes. "Don't be cheeky." But it was said with love and acknowledgement of the truth of it. "He loved everyone."_

" _Yes, but He loved you especially well." Helena told her. They went back to walking. "Besides, waiting until I've had a chance to really talk over what happened is an idea with some merit." She said_

" _I don't see why." They turned again, this time into a familiar parlor. The lights were already burning, as was a low fire in the corner, making this room cozy and warm. There was a low pile of cushions on the floor, a comfortable place to sit and talk and learn. For all that Spencer had caught her watching, this was where Helena usually spent her time, talking and learning to offset the hours and hours of being entirely alone. Mary tugged her granddaughter down to join her on the cushions. "It's over, move on. Move into the future."_

" _You weren't there." Helena replied. The only reason why she'd survived with as little injury as she had and with her sanity intact was because of the lessons she had learned in this place, lessons no convent raised girl ought to know. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered as she settled into the warm cushions. For all that the lessons here had allowed her to skip over confusion and self-blame and straight into anger, fear still lingered as well. Fear that one time it might have worked._

" _You weren't relaxed enough, which is understandable." Mary said, gently rubbing her granddaughter's shoulder. "I would have taken your mind away to protect you if I could, if you had been. Ah, that's the linger of the demonic influence." She said as Helena shivered in her sleep. "Try not to think of it. Tell me why we're here,"_

_Yes, better to focus on the pleasure of the present and the future and not on the past. She moved to one of the chests that lined the walls to find what was needed, towels, and a particular bottle. "Spencer challenged me to help him feel better in his skin while respecting his wishes." She told her grandmother. "I remember a few things but I believe I could use a refresher course."_

" _Ah. Well, that can be arranged." Mary turned as a pretty little blond acolyte appeared at the doorway. The blond woman came in, dropped her stolla and tunica and as bare as the day she was born lay on the pile of rugs in front of them. "Shall we begin?"_


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter twenty-two**

**Somewhere else**

**Spencer**

_It wasn't so much that he felt like the moment he closed his eyes he was back in the bathing chamber. It wasn't that he was standing beside the pool, a place clearly prepared for him. No, it was the remarkably attractive blond who was waiting for him, one who looked a little too much like Lila. He sighed, nodded an acknowledgement to her smile and turned to look for the man whom he knew would not be far away. "What part of no is so difficult? And will you please stop looking like that."_

_The figure sighed, and in a shimmer of a moment stopped looking like Jason Gideon and resumed looking like Llwch, like Lancelot of the Lake. "She's not Helena." He pointed out._

" _That's not the point. If I want my libido stoked I'll do so consciously. My subconscious has never been like this before; I'd rather it not start now." He moved away from the edge of the pool, knowing where he was going but not entirely knowing why._

" _Why on earth not?" The older man asked, falling into step beside him. "What is wrong with a little comfort? Why not actually feel good for once, if only in your sleep?"_

" _It's a question of self-discipline. I need to know I have control, over my body, my mind and my emotional state." Even as he said it in this place Spencer realized that that's what it had been all along. He had just found his own reason for staying clean, to prove that he could. He looked down a hallway as they passed only to see two very familiar figures disappearing around a corner. "And didn't I tell you to leave her alone?"_

_Llwch didn't even need to look. "Uh-uh. She wants to be here, she's here. You don't get to make those decisions for her."_

_No, Spencer thought, he didn't. Innocence did not mean a blank slate after all. They moved into an area that was clearly set aside for eating, some kind of kitchen or tavern type area. A quiet table in the corner was about all the comfort he wanted to deal with right now. "So why all of this? Why can't you just tell me who the UnSub is?"_

_Llwch sat across from him, accepted wine from a passing server. "You were correct earlier when you said that while in certain brain states we can communicate with you, allow you to see and experience things you would not normally. The problem is, when the mind is open it is open. To give you a name would require you to think of that name, while in this state, and if you did, those who are influencing those people would hear."_

" _Subconscious wiretapping?" That's what it almost sounded like there. He'd have to think of the right analogy to explain it to Morgan; "Those who are influencing the UnSubs?"_

_Llwch nodded. "Not everyone follows the same Philosophy we do. Not everyone lived a life of trying to make the world a better place. There were those who preferred to sew seeds of chaos and loathing and fear. You have met some of those they have influenced through your work. When something happens that cannot be explained through your science, when someone does something so unlike what they ought to be, when someone uses the work of our Philosopher to do that which any would call evil, they are being influenced by something else. And that something else would like very much to have control of that which our Philosopher left behind."_

" _And if I think about them in this state they'll hear and be able to track me down this way?"_

_LLwch shrugged. "They will see your face, perhaps gain your name, your profession. The Oracle is not the only one who can use a computer."_

_And that would lead them to the BAU. "I'm FBI." Spencer pointed out. "You would think that would put them off."_

_Llwch shook his head. "They believe they answer to a higher calling."_

_Oh, this just kept getting better. "Can you give me any more clues?"_

" _No. We can only tell you that you are on the right path." Llwch turned as if someone called him. "You need to go now."_

" _Why?"_

_Llwch turned back to him. "Listen."_

**Helena**

_It was a dream. She knew from the moment she opened her eyes that it had to be. It had none of the realism of when she went to see Mary. This truly was a dream._

_Or rather, a nightmare._

_The bare bulb flared to life above her, throwing the roots hanging from the ceiling in sharp relief. She felt the pain of the sudden switch from pure dark to bright light flare as she tried to shield her eyes. Even as that eased she could see the big, iron door coming open. There was woman standing in the doorway, wearing a shapeless grey dress. She hadn't bothered with wimple or veil, her short, iron-grey hair only highlighting her stern features. When she looked toward the bed her expression turned to one of anger and disgust. "Just stay there." She commanded, and then stepped to the side._

_Not a chance, Helena thought. She rolled out of the bed and through the iron door to the wooden one opposite. If she could just get past that woman she could be out and free, relying on speed and youth to get her down the long cellar past her captive. She made it as far as the door but one tug told her it was locked. In her desperation she pounded. "Help! Please!" Maybe someone was out there who could hear?_

_The older woman made a sound of frustration. Helena felt her grab her shoulder, and then as she was spun around the older woman's fist sank into her stomach. All her breath went out with a woosh as a ball of pain erupted. She doubled over, only to have the older woman slap her across the cheek hard enough to knock her to the floor. As soon as she fell the older woman was down beside her, taking her hair in an iron grip. "Stop your fussing." The older woman growled. "Keep this up and there will be no light and no food, you can starve down here in the dark for all I care."_

_If nothing else, the pure hatred in the older woman's voice told her how much trouble she was in. "Please don't do that again. It hurts." It hurt for days last time, and no matter how much Mary had told her that she would heal, it was terrifying._

_The older woman slapped her again, the other side and harder, this time drawing tears. "Be still. Keep that whore mouth shut, I won't hear your temptations." She pushed her firmly back into the room. "Now get back in that bed and lift your skirts."_

_Helena cried out her fear as she made it back to the bed. She didn't want this, she wanted to be out of here, she wanted to go to him; she wanted to be free. She couldn't do as she was told, she couldn't assist this; she simply couldn't. She lay there sobbing as the older woman came back to the bed with a tray, made another sound of frustration, yanked up her skirts and…._

**Spencer**

Listen.

He heard the faint sound as he lifted out of sleep. Something was not right in his apartment. Something was not right. He put his glasses on, pulled out his gun just in case, and went to look.

When he got to the living room he realized the sound was coming from Helena's room. Silently he stole up to the door.

"No!" It was a quiet, desperate cry.

He opened the door and quartered it, just to be safe. There was no one there but Helena, who was rolling on her bed, curled up in a tight ball. "No!" She cried again.

Ah.

Spencer moved to the side of the bed and shook her gently, hoping to ease her from her sleep. "Helena? Helena?" She came awake on a breath, looked up at him as if he was someone else, then realized who he was and threw herself sobbing into his arms. "Shhh, it was only a nightmare." This was to be expected; it didn't come as a surprise. He held her and gently stroked her hair until the tears stopped and she lay back down. "Want to talk about it?"

She shook her head. "Not really."

"Think you can get back to sleep?"

She nodded. But as he got up to go she grabbed his hand. "Thank you."

It was a little thing, but he realized that sometimes the little things were what mattered. Right now we both need friends. "You're welcome. Go back to sleep."

Spencer went back to his own bed and slept soundly the rest of the night.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter twenty-three**

**The Ponce de Leon Co-Op**   
**4514 Connecticut Ave NW**   
**Washington DC**   
**#512**

**Spencer**

The next morning Spencer found Helena in the kitchen making herself tea. Her nightdress covered everything, Garcia had in fact despaired, but it did cling to certain curves when she moved. He took one look, stepped back into the dining room, angrily told the Powers That Be to knock that off, only to again feel that low flash of heat when he looked at her. It didn't get worse, but didn't quite go away, and it began to occur to him that it might just be something natural. Interesting. "Good morning. How are you this morning?" Once he started taking on coffee he could speak.

"I'm all right. There are leftover bagels for breakfast." Helena sat at the small kitchen table with her tea. "I'm sorry I woke you last night."

He shook his head. "It's all right, it's understandable." He leaned against the counter and stirred his coffee. "Want to talk about it?"

"Honestly? No, at least not with you; it would hurt you and I don't want to do that." She sighed into her tea. "You did say that this therapist can listen without getting hurt?"

"Marsha. Yes, they train for that. You can tell her anything at all."

"Good."

While he wasn't her therapist he also didn't want her shutting down either. Better to keep her engaged. "I will say, the discussion we had last night, given what happened…."

She shook her head. "It's my body. I choose what I do with it and who and when, no one else. I promised myself that's how it would be if I ever got out of there."

He reflected on how she said that, her body language, how her lips tightened and her voice grew sharp. Controlled, yes, but there was a lot of anger there. A lot of anger. Well, it was one of the stages of healing. "And I'm not?"

"No." She took a deep breath and held up her hands. "I'm sorry, I'm not angry at you. You're choosing what you want to do with your body. I'm choosing to respect that and wait for you. I could choose to do something other than wait, I know that. I'm just angry at Mother Marion for  _not_  giving me that option for all those years." She looked up at him, open and clear. "I am choosing to be patient, but honestly, neither decision affects how I feel about my body. If there were still temples like the one my Grandmother worked in, I'd probably go."

"Because they had nothing to do with an emotional commitment, I assume." That would be why there was always someone different, and why they were gone in the morning. The priestess was a representative of the deities, not truly there as herself. "Unfortunately such places no longer exist."

"Unfortunately. And not only for that, it really was about healing. But I will do what I can to replicate the effect, starting with that therapist." she stirred her tea again. "This therapist isn't going to insist that I go back to the hospital or anything like that; is she?"

Well that was unexpected. "Not unless something seems physically wrong." Now he was a little concerned. "Why?"

He watched some tension go out of her frame. "No, nothing that I can tell," she chuckled; "because I never want to do that again."

"Ah." Now it made sense. Perhaps Mary had managed to keep her descendent from being afraid of men, but artificial insemination was a medical procedure in the end, and a 1st century therapist couldn't know anything about 21st century medicine. Now Spencer was not her therapist, had made a firm resolve not to go there with her, but he was beginning to see where the work needed to be done, and a healthy anger, a fear of medical procedures, especially gynecological ones, and perhaps touches of both claustrophobia and agoraphobia were all things he'd expect a good, competent therapist to be able to help her work out, and Marsha was a good one. It was all manageable, at least. "Tell Marsha tomorrow, she can help with that."

Helena nodded. "Speaking of, do you have a Latin-English dictionary?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I ran into a translation problem when Emily and JJ interviewed me, back in the hospital." She laughed a little at the confused look on his face. "Mary and Llwch don't speak modern English. Everything's been in Latin; it's the only language we all have in common. Didn't you realize that?"

"No." Actually, he hadn't. "Well, they say being able to dream in a language is a sign of fluency."

"True, but it made the interview difficult. I only knew the Latin terms for body parts."

Spencer started chuckling. He could imagine Emily and JJ's face when Helena came up with an entirely different language for them to puzzle over. "They thought you didn't know what was going on, what had happened."

"Oh, I knew, I just couldn't communicate. I was more upset that you knew that much. I didn't want to hurt you at all."

He shook his head. "You didn't." He watched the last bit of tension flow out of her. "So what do you want to do today?"

"Don't you usually go to the library on Sunday mornings?"

"Yes, but that involves taking the Metro." He watched some of that tension come back. "Yeah, we should probably wait until you've had a chance to talk to Marsha a bit."

"We need groceries."

"I'll run down this afternoon. That way we can see how you feel alone here." He looked at her over his mug. "What do you want to do?"

She considered a moment. "Get outside. Not too many people, maybe, but a park; a walk somewhere?"

He smiled. "I think I know just the place."

 **Forrest Hills Neighborhood Center**  
Cleveland Park  
Washington DC

Just a few blocks from the Ponce de Leon was a classic sort of neighborhood park, playground, little league field, dog run, a building that hosted Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts and assorted community classes, all the usual things. And over in one corner, under the trees, were a half-dozen tables marked with chess boards.

They had walked over with Helena on his arm, enjoying the brisk fall weather and now they sat for a few at a bit of a distance, letting her get a feel for the park and the people in it. Soon enough there would be ice and snow and the chess players would have to move indoors, but for now she could soak in the sunshine and the clean air while doing something somewhat familiar. "Think you might want to play?" Spencer asked her after a time, when he heard the familiar sound of skateboard wheels. "Mrs. Fishman is open and I think she's about your skill level."

Helena turned to him and flat out grinned, "All right."

He made the introductions and left her to it, turning to take an empty table and seat where he could keep an eye on her and on the park as a whole. Then he grandly gestured to the thoroughly shocked Eric to come take the field of battle along with him.

Spencer opened. As per tradition they waited to start talking until they were comfortably in to the first game.

"So who's the chick?" Eric asked. e1 e4

"She's not a chick, she's a woman." g2 g1

"Okay. That woman have a name?" e4 e5

"Helena." h2 h3

"She is remarkably tasty." e5 c5

"I assume you're commenting on her looks." g1 h1 "I'll thank you on her behalf."

"My first question is how did you manage to get her to even talk to you?" c5 e5

At that moment Spencer decided he was going to trounce Eric. The kid needed to be kept humble, "Long story." h1 g1

"And you're not going to tell it." e5 d4 "The second question is why the hell did you bring her here on a date?"

"This isn't a date. We're just friends." d7 d4

"Just friends, huh," g8 h8 "Does that mean I can try for her?"

"What?" Spencer was quietly shocked at how something inside him bristled at the thought. d4 d7 "No."

"Then it's a date." h8 g8

"Whatever." a2 a3

Eric looked over at Helena again and grinned. "I have to admit, I'm impressed man." g8 h8 "I didn't think you had it in you."

Spencer just muttered something of a reply. a6 a7

Eric chuckled, h8 g8 "So, going to introduce me?"

"Don't know yet." a7 a8 "Checkmate."

Eric cursed him fluently for that.

* * *

After they returned it was a light lunch, then Helena took some time to organize the office supplies Morgan had brought for her the day before, as well as the cookbooks he'd acquired for her. She made up a grocery list, and Spencer walked down to the large market by the Van Ness metro station to fill it and to set up a delivery account for when he was out of town.

When he returned they put it all away, and Helena started supper. By mutual accord they were eating at the small table in the kitchen now, using the dining room as office space, spreading out their work on opposite sides of the table and using the empty drawers in the buffet and a small bookshelf for storage. While he sorted his work, all jumbled from having to move it all out of the sunroom, he caught a remarkably savory smell coming from the kitchen. At some point she reappeared, taking off the apron she'd put on Garcia's list the day before. "What is that?" He asked her.

"Pot roast," she replied. "My first try. Cross your fingers."

The afternoon passed in companionable quiet. He sorted his paperwork; she sorted hers and the things they had bought at the needlework store. He helped her set up online, classes, how to connect with him while he was out of town, e-mail, video conferencing, her cell phone. He set up the blasted tablet Garcia had left him, necessary now but he was still going to organize cases on paper or else he was going to miss something, swear.

The pot roast was a complete success.

Helena remembered Star Trek. After supper and dishes and getting Spencer's go-bag re-packed for the week they curled up on his sofa together to watch for a time. She pulled out one of the projects she had bought and sat beside him, keeping her hands busy as they watched. Something wasn't quite right though. He looked over at her. "Why do you feel like you're a million miles away?"

She shrugged, scooted closer, and pulled his arm around her, leaning up against him as she worked.

She was right. That felt much better.

I'm not alone anymore, he realized. I'm no longer alone.

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter twenty-four**

**The Ponce de Leon Co-Op**   
**4514 Connecticut Ave NW**   
**Washington DC**   
**#512**

**Spencer**

The next morning they were up bright and early. After breakfast and a chance to tidy the dishes Spencer let in and introduced Marsha Mayborn, the therapist Helena was going to try. He explained the nature of the case in a way that left the supernatural out, and then went for a walk to a nearby coffee place to give them some privacy. When he returned he found Helena curled up on the couch with a cup of tea. Clearly she had been crying. "Already?" He asked as he dropped down beside her.

"It's hard to talk about; hard to even think about." She admitted. "But Marsha is a good listener."

"Good." Why did it feel like he was ripping part of himself off? "I have to go to work, which means I may not be home tonight. Are you going to be all right?"

Helena nodded. "I think so." She smiled up at what must have been a look of concern on his face. "I know, don't let anyone in without checking first, don't leave the building, and don't go downstairs unless you make sure the doorman is there and you see him and it looks okay. If I need anything call Garcia, or if it's an emergency call Jerry." She recited. "I wish I'd had a chance to meet Jerry."

Spencer smiled. It didn't matter, Jerry knew that he had a girl, and agreed to be an emergency contact; he didn't have to meet her to know that she mattered a lot. "The first chance we get. I just wish I wasn't leaving you alone here."

She shook her head. "I spent days alone, weeks. If anything I could use the rest. Now go, have an adventure, vanquish a dragon, come home and tell me all about it."

It still didn't feel right, "All right. Come lock the door?" She followed him that far. Now how to say good-by?

Helena answered that question by stretching up to give him a very soft kiss. "Come home to me." She murmured before giving him a gentle push out the door.

**BAU Headquarters  
Quantico, VA**

When Spencer got to the office the first person he encountered was Morgan. "There you are." The older man said.

"What? I said I would be late this morning." He had cleared it in advance, was here ten minutes before he said he would be.

"No, not that, I told Hotch what's been happening, minus the supernatural crap. I figure we've had enough of leaving him officially out of the loop for a while."

"And?"

"Given that it's a closed case, it's no one's business where she lives or who you live with. But if that stalker sticks their head up again you'll be expected to take yourself off the case for being too close now."

Well Spencer had figured that, "Of course." If the stalker did stick their head up his primary concern would be protecting Helena, not catching the UnSub and making a case. This would free him to do that.

"Good, get coffee, conference room in fifteen."

"Where are we going?'

"Upstate New York."

**Plattsburg Police Station  
Plattsburg, NY**

It wasn't that the UnSub was a particular standout in any way, at least not yet. Granted he might be a true cannibal, and if that was the case it was somewhat notable. It was that there had been an unseasonal blizzard this past week, and more on the way. They thought the weather was what had triggered the UnSub, which meant having to go out in it. And this much snow just sucked.

Much later that evening Spencer was at the board in the conference room of the station working on the geographic when he began to feel that distinct prickly sensation of being watched. As far as he knew he and Morgan were the only ones in the room at the moment, and Morgan was head down in a coroner's report. But he looked around anyway, maybe a cop in the other room? No? He'd felt this before when out on a case, was he finally perhaps going over the edge of sanity?

Then he spotted the clock.

Oh.

"What?" Morgan asked him.

"Nothing."

"Try again."

"Nothing."

"Reid…."

Sigh. "Did you ever feel like you were being watched?"

"What, a cannibal getting to you?"

"No. It's um…" No, no one was listening. "…Helena's bedtime."

Now it was Morgan's turn to sigh. "You're imagining things."

"Maybe," but it was nicer not to think so. Spencer turned back to the board, but for one moment he delighted in the feeling of someone there just for him.

Later, as he finally got into bed, Spencer lay back and let himself drift. Alpha state, he wondered as his body relaxed into the hotel mattress, I wonder…

What felt like a moment later, he could have sworn he was standing in his own sunroom, back in his apartment. It was more or less dark, lit only by a nightlight. And there on the bed was Helena, snuggled under the quilt, sprawled out comfortably on her stomach, snoring lightly.

I'll be dammed, he thought, it's real. I do see her; which means she probably sees me as well. She saw me as well. She's been a part of my life all this time and I just didn't know. I thought my sanity was question, that I was becoming paranoid, that I was having nightmares. No, it was this all along.

The only bad part was that she was sleeping. There just wasn't much to look at with her sleeping. She had kind of cute snore, but that was about it here. No, he realized, the point is that I know she's all right. I'm a part of her life too.

He felt himself smile as he let himself drift further into true sleep.

The next morning, before he went down he pulled up the video conferencing on his tablet. When out on a case they never knew when they were going to go to bed but they usually had at least enough time to shower and change in the morning. And given that enough time meant enough time for Emily and JJ he had an extra five minutes to kill. Not nearly long enough, but it was a something. He grinned when he saw the familiar back wall of his dining room, Helena sitting there looking comfortably perfect with her mug of tea, "Good morning."

"Good morning," she said. "Hope you slept well."

"Reasonably," he was functioning on all of four hours sleep at this point, felt off somehow, a bit cranky, a touch too tight, feelings he knew were not going to get better with time. But there was no reason to share with her. "Did you?"

"Yes, very much so."

"Um, yeah, I, um…saw." He confessed.

"Did you?" She started grinning, sounded thrilled. "Oh, I was hoping that would happen! What do you do with the colors on the map anyway?"

"It's called a geographic profile, we can…." No, Spencer thought, stop right there. "It's going to take a bit to explain, remind me when I get home."

"All right," Helena was still grinning. "Oh, I ran into Mrs. Timmons in the laundry room yesterday, do you think it would be safe for me to go over to her place Thursday night? Apparently there's a building wide book club, she's invited me to go."

"Sure, I don't see why not. Assuming we're back in town I have a regular meeting on Thursday nights." Beltway Clean Cops and coffee at Jerry's after, at least she wouldn't be home alone and bored. Well, at least not home alone. "Although, it is mostly elderly women you know…"

She laughed. "Good, it will be like being back with the Sisters. I don't think I would mind that."

And a safe, familiar place to start spreading her wings with different people. "All right then." He was grinning along with her. But the clock was running out. "I have to go."

"Awww," she grinned as she said it. But then she took a deep breath. "Come home to me." And for a moment she looked just like a queen.

"Yes, M'Lady, I will."

For the next two days running the pattern repeated itself. About Helena's bedtime he felt someone watching him for a little while. As he slipped into sleep he found himself in her room, watching her for a few moments. And every morning they chatted for a few minutes by video conference. He found it made for a comfortable set of bookends to the day, a reminder that he had a world to return to that didn't involve pain and violence and death. Unfortunately as the week went on he found himself getting more wired and tired and cranky, not enough to start snapping at people, not yet, but still. And he began to notice that the desire to get high was slowly but steadily creeping around the edges of his consciousness, even more so than most cases.

On Thursday they caught the UnSub, just as the next snowstorm was shutting down the entire town, including the airport. This involved a chase in the freezing snow which only intensified the feeling of tired, stressed crankiness. And now the soonest they could get out was tomorrow late afternoon. Of course, Spencer thought, now I can't get home to Helena or my meeting, my blasted luck.

After dinner they went back to the station, none of them wanting to linger after they got back to DC, to finish paperwork in the absence of anything else to do. Spencer found himself in one corner with Morgan as the now familiar feel of Helena watching him crept up over him. Without realizing it, he began to smile. Morgan caught it. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Reid…."

It was the same time every night. "Helena."

Morgan scoffed. "You do this every night." He said. "You're imagining things."

Spencer found a notepad, flipped it to an empty page, and wrote _. H- If you are watching text Morgan and say so. – S._  Then he put it where it could be clearly seen by anyone looking over his shoulder.

Morgan just chuckled and went back to his papers.

A moment later his phone chimed an incoming text from one Helena Morgan.  _Yes, I was watching_.

"Sonofabitch," Morgan muttered as Spencer laughed. "That is just not right."

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter twenty-five**

**The Ponce de Leon Co-Op**   
**4514 Connecticut Ave NW**   
**Washington DC**   
**#512**

**Spencer**

By the time he got home, Spencer had to admit, at least privately, that he did rather want to get high. Not as badly as he had after Emily's death or after JJ's betrayal, but he had to acknowledge the desire. He felt cold and tight and irritable and the thought of being able to lie back in his bed and float away sounded pretty wonderful right about then. The worst part of it was that he couldn't even go to Jerry to talk it out, Jerry closed on Fridays for dinner with his family, and he really ought to go home to give Helena some company, see if she wanted to go anywhere.

So it was with a resigned sigh that he opened the door, more or less expecting that the apartment would be cold and dark as always. Somehow he had not added things together right, or perhaps he was just tired, because he opened the door to light and warmth and some of the most savory scents in the air. The fireplace was going, for one, and there was something that smelled entirely too appetizing over the scent of a bakery. For a moment he stood there in the foyer utterly confused as to what was going on, before he shuffled over to divest himself of bags and coat.

Just as he was commencing shuffle Helena appeared in the dining room doorway. "Hello." She said warmly. "You look awful." It was said with the kind of concern that usually came attached with a query as to the health of the other, but that query never came.

"I feel awful." He agreed. "Not sick, just…" He sighed. He had never outright said this before. He didn't have to with Jerry and wouldn't with anyone on the team. "Sometimes that five year coin is a fight." He admitted.

"Let me help?" She asked, before holding up a hand, "While hewing to the nature of our agreement."

Well, since she put it that way, "All right." What did he have to lose? "But do you want to go get dinner first?"

She smiled at him. "Dinner's waiting. Go wash up and meet me in the kitchen."

At least they wouldn't have to go back out in that weather. He washed up as bidden, paused to loosen then remove his tie, and settled at the small kitchen table. As he watched, a loaf of crusty bread appeared before him, and butter and ice tea and bowls of some kind of soup thick with vegetables and chunks of beef. "You did all this? This bread is still warm," and smelled heavenly.

"Mmm-hmm, also pumpkin bread for tea and some chocolate chip cookies; I wanted to try some recipes and Garcia said you would eat just about anything," She settled across the table from him. "and while you were gone I sat through four online lectures, worked on my needlework case, gave the place a thorough cleaning, had tea with Sylvia and had a great time at the book club last night."

"Sylvia?"

"Sylvia Timmons, from next door?" Helena nodded to the window sill. "She swapped us for a larger pot."

The apple seedling was up to six or seven inches and had a number of leaves. Spencer just shook his head as he smiled. "I think we can blame Galahad's blood." Given that one of his Grandmothers might not have been entirely human.

"I'm not doing it deliberately." Helena replied. "Although I can recall that my Mother loved to garden, she could make anything grow."

"Well, if we theorize that one bloodline is carried, not expressed, that would leave three that would be extremely dominant. But even then, one would have to come to the forefront. Maybe hers was the bloodline from the Lady of the Lake. And given what the Bishop said about how Kat ran things, maybe she took after Bron the Blessed."

"And you think I take after Mary?" She laughed as he felt his ears burn. "Enough. How was the trip? Tell me what's going on in that head of yours."

Invited to do so, Spencer started talking. He talked about the case, yes, but also the unusual weather, the time of year, and the area in which the crimes had taken place. But somewhere along the line she nudged him into talking about other things, or at least starting to, Emily's death, JJ's betrayal, everything that had gone on that summer. He talked through the excellent soup, the still warm bread, a slice of the pumpkin bread while she washed up. He talked and talked until he finally fell silent, at least for now talked through. Finally she finished and he just sat, looking up at her, "Now what?"

"Garcia helped me order a few things while you were gone." She told him. "Now go take a bath. Twenty minutes at least, as hot as you can stand it, and leave that bag of herbs in there. And come back in shorts."

That stopped him. "I don't own shorts." He admitted.

"You own boxers. I'm not going to do anything, I won't even peek."

"You already have." He reminded her, leaving her laughing as he went.

Back when he had been shot he hadn't been home two days before he realized that the standard tub and shower combination he had at the time was not going to work. He couldn't wash himself while balancing on two crutches, couldn't get out of the thing if he sat down in it and it was too narrow for a tub chair. He finally broke down, dipped into the poker fund, and had it replaced with something called a walk-in tub. It was both narrower and higher that a standard tub, with shower enclosure around the top, with a door in the side that would seal shut. On the far end there was a built-in bench, with multiple grab bars. You got in, sat on the bench, sealed the door, and let the tub fill up around you. Or, if you happened to be in a cast or brace, leave the door open, brace your broken leg on a chair outside, and wash the rest of yourself with the hand held shower with minimal fuss. Or for the ultimate you turned on the overhead shower and sat under a warm rain as the tub filled up around you. But for now he let the tub fill, after a quick round with the hand-held to wash the remnants of the case and the trip off. The bundle of herbs in cheesecloth gave the water a gentle scent, made him feel like he was soaking in mild tea, but wasn't a bad thing. He sat there for the proscribed length of time and let his mind drift back over the case, and Helena's case, and whatever else wandered through. A one point he realized that, with the unseasonable snow, this was the first time he'd felt truly warm in days.

When the time was up he got out, toweled off, swapped contacts for glasses, and came out in boxers and a comfortably baggy shirt. He found that Helena had stoked the fire, leaving the room cozy, had changed aprons, and was sitting in the middle of his couch with a towel under her, a small stack at her elbow, and two covered bowls at her feet. She'd knocked the pillows to one end, set the small TV opposite. "Sit." She indicated. "I figured out how to use the DVD player, I put something called Mythbusters in. It looked interesting, not that I'm going to be paying too much attention at first."

Spencer sat where bidden. "Did you watch any of it yet?"

"No. I figured I'd wait for you. Give." She tried to tug his left leg into her lap. "Uh-uh. Come on, give."

She tugged gently but insistently until he sighed and let her pull his leg across hers. "What are you doing?" He asked.

"Either something I learned from Grandmother or something I learned from Aunt Margaret." She adjusted a little, and then reached for something he couldn't quite see in one of those bowls. "And either I saw you needed it last night when I saw you walking around the police station or today when you came in. You know, whichever explanation works, they both fit."

He felt something warm drizzle just above his knee, and then her hands were lightly covering, sliding over everything. "What are you doing?" He repeated. It felt odd. Not in a bad way, but not something he was used to. He didn't usually like being touched and this was different.

"The same thing I used to do for Aunt Margaret. After forty plus years of kneeling on cold, stone floors she found it quite helpful." She was light over the joint, but then she moved lower and began to press deeper. "So when I was willing and she saw what I could do help she had a friend send her a book on the subject. Then Grandmother expanded on my lessons. All swollen, how have you been managing to walk?"

"I've been managing." He winced a little as she pressed in deeper and his muscles started to ache, kind of, or maybe they were stopping to ache. "That feels…."

"…like a muscle spasm, maybe four or five, which kind of explains a lot of things." She looked up at him a moment. "Go ahead and turn on the TV if you want a distraction."

"No, I'd rather watch you." With that he watched as she went to work, gentle and light around the joint, less so on the large muscles of his calf and thigh. She worked briskly at first, it seemed, to get things to start to loosen up, and then rolling the large muscles deeply to get the spasms to break. As they began to unknot she found points where she told him to breathe in then out, and on the out she dug in, remarkably painfully but when she released he could feel the warmth as the spots relaxed. Even thought it clearly wasn't sexual, he had never been touched so deeply, so very nearly intimately before, and he found himself falling under some kind of spell. She worked her way up his leg, not too close to the hem of his boxers on the inside, but very nearly under them on the outside of his leg. "That's not knee joint." He pointed out with a smile.

She returned the smile in question. "No, but it's the outside edge of tight. The problem is that you keep trying to keep up with everyone, Morgan especially."

Spencer frowned. "I can keep up with them." He never let the team down, not at all.

"Oh, I know." Helena replied as she worked her way back down, more lightly this time. "But not without some expense. For all the injuries everyone in your team has taken no one else took an injury to a weight-bearing joint. And you've gotten so used to ignoring the pain that you don't really register it anymore. So you push too far, I think, and then you get back to town and you finally stop and now you feel like hell and you want something to make that feeling go away, not realizing that it's pain."

For all that she was mildly chastising he was finding that he simply could not get upset with her at the moment. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I think you might be getting a touch of arthritis in this knee. To compensate for it the muscles around this joint tighten until they lock. That puts strain on other joints and other muscles. By the time you're finished with a case you're stiff as a board all over, no wonder you feel awful. And then you get little sleep and I've seen the kind of food you all eat." She finished by gently stroking over it, and then used one of the towels to wipe off her hands and the excess oil. "And no one has ever shown you any other way to take care of yourself, have they?"

"No." He thought about it for a moment, and now that he did, it made sense. "And no one to really talk to." He admitted. "That's made it more difficult."

"I can imagine." She murmured. Rather than give him back his leg she went down into the other bowl, coming up with a covered, flexible ice pack, which went over his knee. "Stay. Twenty minutes." She smiled at him and nodded to the TV. "Might as well, I'm just going to make you stay here."

Good point. He relaxed back into the couch pillows and turned the TV on. "I didn't see any source of ice at the convent." He just had to point out.

"Cold well water; this is much tidier."

She held on to his leg for that twenty minutes as they both relaxed, every so often running her fingers under it to make certain it wasn't getting too cold. After the time was up she removed the ice pack and strapped his smaller brace around his knee. "I found this under the couch." She told him.

"I don't need that."

"It will help stabilize that joint, and keep it from being irritated and swelling again, and support the muscles so they don't have to lock." She ignored him and finished, before lightly rubbing his thigh again, this time more comforting than anything. "You're home now. You don't have to prove anything to me. Pause that?" She gave him back his leg, finally, depositing it on the large ottoman-cum-coffee table next to the other one as he paused the show. "How do you feel?"

Spencer considered this. Not cranky, he realized, not tired except in a good sort of way, not sore, not wired. Not anything in fact, except rather like he was melding into the cushions behind him. This is what relaxed feels like, he realized, it's a cozy sort of warm feeling like all your muscles are stretching nicely. "Good. Really good." And I no longer want to get high, he realized as well. I don't feel high, but at this point it's really easy to say no, I don't need to. "Thank you. I don't think anyone has…fussed over me like that before."

"Mmm-hmm," Helena gathered up the things she had been using. "I'm going to go wash my hands, then I'll be back with my knitting for the rest. Does this mean I won the challenge?"

"I think you did."


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter twenty-six**

**Spencer**

That was Friday. Saturday morning Spencer found out that somehow Garcia had found Helena a coat and boots. With his spares of winter gear for now that meant she could go anywhere regardless of the weather. "Want to try?" He asked.

"I'd like to." Helena replied. "As cozy as this place is I'd like to see some of Washington."

"Feel up to the Metro?"

"Ummm….maybe?"

He nodded. "I'll bring cab fare. If it gets to be too much we can come up and grab a cab home."

She insisted he take his cane and wear his brace, pointed out that he might as well care for it now so he wouldn't have to in the field, would not leave until he agreed. They caught the bus just outside the door, which proved not to be a problem. The first problem came at the station, the elevators were out. "You know, I've, um…." She eyed the escalators with trepidation. "…never ridden one of those before."

"Never?" Well she did grow up in a rural area. And if they were trying to stay under the radar they may have avoided the city. He found one in a quieter corner and considered this. "Okay, get in behind me. Try to step in the center of one of the squares when I step forward as well. If you slip I'll catch you." He braced himself on both handrails, and used his greater stride to his advantage. He felt her hands go around his waist and when she was ready it was a big step…

Hey, it worked.

She clung to him, and they both laughed all the way down. Getting off was just as much fun. He had her wrap her hands around his waist and held them there, then all but pulled her off, letting her catch herself against him as she stumbled just a little.

Thankfully it wasn't too busy; they found a place to wait well enough away from everyone. The station itself was large and well lit enough so as to not feel at all claustrophobic, at least when it wasn't rush hour. The sight of the big, dark tunnel, so like the cellar, had her clinging to him. "It's all right, I'm not going anywhere." He murmured.

"I know." She replied. "It's just…." She wrapped her arms around his waist and curled into his shoulder, clearly not looking.

"Here, take a look." He distracted her with the well-lit system map, where they were going, where they were until they heard the rumble of the oncoming train. "Want to give the train a try?" He felt her nod against his side and so when the trains stopped he tugged her in with him. The next problem came with the large windows, so once he had her safely tucked in beside him he nudged her bag. "Pull out your knitting and don't look." He suggested.

"Good idea," Helena was working on something brightly colored, sock-shaped perhaps and probably too large for her. "You never told me where we were going."

"I thought you might enjoy one of the quieter museums." Spencer pulled a guidebook to the Smithsonian out of his bag. "The Renwick Gallery is all furniture, decorative and craft art, that kind of thing." And it did not involve a transfer at the dark cavern of Metro Center. They'd have to work up to that. He held the book so she could look while she knit.

"Oh, that does look interesting. Oh!" She stopped knitting, grabbed hold of his arm when the train started up again. "I think I'd better not. It's probably going to do that at every station, isn't it?" She tucked the sock away in favor of holding on, but she was grinning.

"Yes." He found he liked being held on to. "So you gave me the basics, but what did you do all week?"

"Oh all sorts of things; Garcia pointed me to lots of interesting stuff on the computer. I found all these radio shows and things. Let me tell you, much more fun to sit and sew in front of a big window listening to the radio." She looked up at him. "Can we get some bird feeders for the terrace?

"I can imagine." Anything would be better than a bare bulb in a silent tomb. "I don't see why not. I was going to ask if you wanted to put a garden out there, its set up for it." The terrace was actually the roof of a wing of the building. One of the previous tenants had reinforced it and plumbed it for a potted garden; he had just never done anything with it.

"Oh, I would love to! I was going to ask if we could. Once the weather turns nice again you'll probably never get me indoors."

"That would be all right. We should really talk to Morgan about some kind of an exercise routine for when you're stuck home as well. I still feel kind of guilty about that."

"Don't, I've been enjoying it so far. If that changes I'll let you know. And I don't need an exercise routine."

"Actually you should, it would be a lot healthier. Studies have shown that…"

She lightly touched his hand to stop him. "Grandmother already showed me one." She told him. "Something she learned from the soldiers. You have to pretend you have a sword; do all these lunges and things. If you do it quickly enough it really gets your heart moving."

"Sounds like some kind of martial arts form thing. I honestly have no clue what it's called, but Morgan would. That explains how you managed to stay physically strong down there."

She nodded and looked around as the train slowed again. "Is this our stop?"

Farragut North. "Yes, it is. Come on. We'll take the bus from here." They used a similar procedure on the escalators here, except he put his hands around her waist and guided her forward so that he could catch her if she fell. At the top they walked out of the concourse and into the city main with her on his arm. "I just realized something." He murmured as he led her to the bus stop. This is probably the first time anyone ever brought the Grail to a major city." Given that she either was the Grail or was wearing the last remnant of it around her neck in the form of her cross, or both, it rather universally applied.

Helena turned and smiled at him. "You're a brave man, Dr. Reid."

"I wouldn't go that far."

It turned out to be a perfect day. The walk from the bus stop to the museum was pleasant, cool but not too icy. The museum was in a large, former home so the rooms did not overwhelm, and it was one of the less popular and off the Mall, so it was not overly crowded. Afterward it was a walk through Lafayette Square, with its views of so many buildings and monuments, including the White House, and a wander through some of the historic buildings around it. They found a place nearby that looked interesting for dinner, a place that featured Southern style food that turned out to be utterly delicious. In the end they took a cab home, and sat and shared a last bit of tea before bed.

And all the while they talked.

They talked about the city, about the museum, about the wonder of, yes that really is the White House. They talked over a chess game they stopped to watch in the park, and over the items in the museum and the museum itself. They talked about Spencer's first few months in Washington, back when he was amazed that yes, he really live here, in a place so near to mythical and how it was so different from Vegas. They talked about how she had heard of such things before the convent, and even in it, and never thought she'd see any of it at all. They talked until they were yawning over tea and simply could not stay awake to talk any further.

It was a perfect day.

Sunday was a walk to the park for chess, and then she sent him to the grocery store with a list. They organized for the week, before sitting down to supper and a quiet evening. They talked all through Sunday as well, it seemed, even when they weren't making a sound.

By the time he returned to work on Monday he had to admit, he hadn't felt this good in quite some time. "What's gotten into you?" Morgan asked him in the elevator.

Spencer considered. "If you took a girl to a museum, walked her through a park, took her out to dinner, and ended up having tea at, let's say her place, before heading off to bed, would you consider that a date?"

Morgan nodded, "More or less. Why?"

"I had my first date over the week-end."

That left the older man chuckling. "And how was it?"

"Everything it was supposed to be."


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

**Spencer**

Time passed.

Spencer and Helena stayed together as fall moved into winter. They used the internet and their dreams to stay connected while he was out on a case. When he was home on week-ends they took one day to go out, see the sites of DC, wander together, have dinner out somewhere, then the next day to tend to home and settling for the next work week. During the week while he was gone she did the housework and laundry, completed her work for her online classes, having tested out of high school and into her freshman year of college, and worked on Any Damn Thing She Wanted to Create. Yes, that mattered to him very much; she deserved to have that outlet. And if he ended up with a remarkable quantity of healthy (ish) homemade baked goods out of the deal he was not going to complain. Every Thursday she either had a book club in the building or she went to a knitting group. It was Garcia's idea; she swore Helena would love it, and given that at least one other member was also employed by one of the alphabet soup agencies and knew how to keep an eye out for anything hinky, Spencer decided it was perfectly safe. When he had time Spencer continued to peck away at Fr. Paul's journals. So far he'd met the lovely Kat during his freshman year, they started dating, and her father really seemed to like him.

Llwch more or less stopped sending him dreams. It seemed as if they were all waiting for something.

Before too long Spencer took Helena to meet Jerry. It was spaghetti night at the bar, which meant much talk and laughter. When Spencer went back the following Thursday after his meeting Jerry pronounced her just right. "Reminds me of my Mae," he said, which was the highest compliment. "I was hoping you would get a girl."

"She's my roommate, my housekeeper, not my girl." Spencer insisted automatically.

Jerry just looked at him a moment. "You wanna back up and roll over that one again?"

Spencer considered, felt his ears burning, and didn't answer.

Jerry's grin grew and eventually he just chuckled.

All right, so he had a girl. "Is this all right though?" Spencer finally had to ask. "I mean, it's not something you can get addicted to, is it? Relative to the thirteenth step and all?"

"Is what?"

Spencer briefly outlined what they had been doing, dates, connections, how she fussed over him when he got back from a case. Not the part about how they dreamed of course, but the mundane aspects. "Lately I've been finding that I don't want to use like I used to. I just want to come home and, you know, be there. Dinner, company, maybe let her fuss. Is that…"

"Normal?" Jerry was still grinning even as he shook his head. "That you have to ask. Yes, completely. Normal, healthy, the kind of thing you try for, especially this far into recovery. Do not let her go, all right?"

"I'll give it my best."

**Rossi**

Thanksgiving proved to be difficult. Normally Spencer would go out to see his Mom for the holiday, but Helena didn't have her ID yet and he didn't want to leave her home alone for it, and he had seen Mom recently enough, so he decided to stay in DC. JJ, Will and Henry were heading to New Orleans for the holiday, Morgan was heading to Chicago, Hotch, Henry and Jessica were heading out to see Haley's family, let her parents spend the holiday with their grandchild. That left Rossi inviting Garcia and Kevin and Helena and him over for dinner.

And Emily.

"He's bringing who with him?" Emily asked Rossi, having arrived first.

"Helena Owens. The woman we rescued from the convent."

"Are they dating?"

"More or less."

Emily scooped her jaw up off the floor and accepted her glass of wine as she settled at the big island in Rossi's kitchen. "Does Hotch know?"

"Reid cleared it with him first. The case was closed, so the FBI didn't have any stake in the matter."

"Yeah, but is…well, the ethics are questionable as hell. I wouldn't expect that from Reid."

Rossi stirred whatever he was cooking, which started filling the house with a savory aroma. "You know, given that people have been turning any ethical code we have to Swiss cheese of late, I don't think he cares much anymore."

At first Emily recoiled from that. But then she clearly thought, and sagged. "I suppose I deserved that."

Rossi just shrugged. "For the first time since I've known him he seems truly happy. And I'm going to do what I can to help keep him that way."

The next Monday at the BAU Rossi did just that.

He came in early so he would be waiting and ready. As soon as JJ walked in the door, clearly looking around for someone, he was at her elbow. "I brought panettone for coffee this morning." He told the delicate blond. "Come help me eat some."

Once they were in his office he shut the door. "Let me guess, Emily told you about Reid and Helena Owens, and you came in looking for him to ask him why he didn't say anything to you about it."

JJ sighed. "Yes, I was. I'm…"

"Upset that he was keeping a secret." Rossi continued. "You thought you two were the kind of friends who told each other everything. Why then would he keep something this major away from you, especially when it was clear that other members of the team knew?"

"Yeah."

"Well, CheetoBreath, I would say that's because he doesn't quite trust you the way he used to. And so far no one has done anything to restore that level of trust."

JJ recoiled at the word CheetoBreath. "Is he still upset about that?"

"Oh, I think a few of us are. That was a very foolish thing to do, you know."

"Emily was lonely."

"Emily made her own path. She was starting a new life, that means getting out and making new friends, not staying home and risking her life and the lives of her team to stay connected with old ones."

"Oh, there wasn't any risk." JJ dismissed that casually.

It was that casualness that had Rossi frowning. "Anyone who knows Garcia ought to know better. There is no such thing as a secure system for her; you know that; which means that service could have been hacked."

"It wasn't."

"Not the point and you know it. You two kept in contact even though you were not supposed to. That means one of two things. Either you're a bad mother or you were willing to throw a so-called friend under the bus for your career."

JJ's jaw dropped. "I beg your pardon."

Rossi continued in his calm, logical way, utterly without any heat. "But we're looking at this from Reid's point-of-view. Now, he can safely assume that you three were under orders not to tell him because he is an addict and as such is easy to interrogate. He's a point of vulnerability which needs to be isolated."

"Yeah," JJ agreed, even though there was confusion on her face.

"But that does not logically hold. For one thing the FBI doesn't know that he's had problems, so that would not have factored in to their orders. What they should have done, conversely, is taken you and Hotch out of the loop."

"What! Why?"

"Henry and Jack," Rossi looked at her steadily. "If you had to choose between sending Doyle after Emily in Paris or watching him torture your son in front of you, which would you have chosen?"

JJ didn't say anything.

"But they selected you for this assignment anyway. Either it was because you brought something to the table that no one else had, that overrode the risk of being interrogated, or because they didn't think Doyle was really that much of a threat. If he was that much of a threat then you put Henry at risk by staying in contact with Emily. You risked your son being kidnapped and tortured in order to keep a friend company by playing online Scrabble. That would make you a bad mother."

JJ's eyes were welling up with tears.

"Now none of us think you're a bad mother. In fact we all think you're pretty amazing when it comes to Henry. You never would have put him at risk, ever. So that leaves us with the other option." Rossi sipped his coffee. "Doyle really wasn't that much of a threat. The order not to tell anyone was just a standard, blanket order; don't tell anyone who doesn't really need to know."

"That's exactly it." JJ agreed, blotting her eyes on her napkin.

"Except that we come back around to his issues with addiction. As we said, the FBI doesn't know. You knew. You knew he has issues with abandonment, and that he would fairly easily consider turning back to drugs to deal with the pain of another loss. And yet even though Doyle really wasn't that big of a concern you didn't tell him. Why?"

"We were under orders."

"And you weren't willing to bend those orders? Tell him but ask him not to reveal it to anyone? You know as well as we do that he can keep any secret, he's uniquely good at guarding his behavior."

"And if they had found out I would have lost my chance to come back to the BAU." JJ replied.

Rossi nodded. "So you risked him becoming re-addicted in order to protect your career. That fits the definition of throwing him under a bus. Or else you really didn't even consider it as an issue, in which case you either don't know him as well as he thought or didn't bother to remember."

JJ sniffed. "Any way you look at it I come out sounding like a horrible friend."

"It rather depends on how you define 'friend'. Clearly you can be trusted at work, you follow rules and guidelines closely; your behavior can be relied upon."

"But I'm not all that great with the personal stuff." JJ finished.

Rossi shrugged. "Given that, why should he tell you about his personal life?"

"I never even considered him as having a personal life." She admitted.

"Well, you were wrong there. But now you know where to start."

"I guess I do."

**Spencer**

Not too much longer later Spencer walked into work. JJ met him at the coffee pot. "Hey Spence, can we talk for a minute?"

"Sure."

* * *

The next week-end was the lighting of the National Christmas Tree. It was frightfully cold and a bit of a zoo, but someone was just the right age to appreciate it. Spencer started with the introductions, JJ, Will, Helena. "And this is my godson Henry." He said, hoisting the boy into his arms.

"So this is where you've been." Will drawled.

Spencer felt his ears burning. "Something like that."

Then the lights took everyone's breath away.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

**BAU Headquarters  
Quantico, VA**

**Spencer**

A tree had to happen, of course. And gifts were placed under it. For weeks he'd been seeing a variety of brightly colored sock shaped items being hidden in a certain work bag whenever he came into the room, so he could make a logical assumption. Or at least he was hoping, he loved wool socks in the winter. He, on the other hand, had no clue what to get her, but the problem was easily solved when Garcia said she'd been eyeing a few things at the shop where they went for knitting group. He handed Garcia money and got back wrapped gifts, a feat for which he was unendingly grateful.

He had just finished tucking the last of them into his bag when his phone rang. "This is Dr. Reid."

"Hello Dr. Reid, it's Polly."

Polly was the genealogist who had been tracking Helena's family, "Ah, hello. How are you?"

"Oh, quite well, thank you. I finally managed to trace Helena's family line, back to the point where they immigrated. You were correct; they landed in Baltimore during the Irish Famine."

"And what were the names at the time?"

"Colin O'Dwyer and Anna Maddox O'Dwyer; now, O'Dwyer can be looked at two ways. One is the O'Dwyer clan, which is common enough, but it can also be pronounced  _O Dweer_ , which would spell out as O'Dubhir. The members of that clan are thought to descend from a chieftain named Dubhir and are more commonly referred to as the 'black' clan, which is something you asked about, according to my notes."

Oh, well, here we go Spencer thought. "Were you able to find out why it was called that?"

"Well, I consulted with a colleague in Ireland who said that the only reason she could see is that that clan is quite shrouded in mystery. They were geographically isolated for centuries, for one thing, and the clan chiefs never allowed a priest onto their lands. According to rumor they practiced Pre-Christian religions exclusively, which was unusual."

"Fascinating, any connection to Wales?"

"Well, Maddox is a Welsh surname."

"Right." They spoke for a few moments more before ringing off. Spencer sat there considering for a moment, then got up and headed for Morgan's office. "Got a minute?"

"Yeah."

Spencer, shut the door, set his phone to speaker, and called a familiar number, "Hi Mom."

"Well hello son. Is this line clear?"

"Yep, we just scanned it." Spencer looked up at Morgan who didn't need an explanation; he was smiling a bit indulgently. It was Mom, he understood.

"Oh good, we ought to have a few minutes then. Is this about that case again?"

"Yes, it is. Wait, how did you know?"

"Well, I doubt they would let you use those kinds of resources just to make a personal phone call. Being able to talk to the best son in the world is an added benefit."

There she went again. Morgan was silently chuckling. "Good point. Does the name O'Dwyer mean anything to you?" He pronounced it  _O Dweer._

"Oh, the Dwyer clan, strange, mysterious folk there; they supposedly descend from a chieftain named Dubhir. Now some date him to the tenth century, but some say his clan formed much, much earlier."

"How much earlier?"

"Oh God, we don't know. Legend has it that they were the clan around Manannán mac Lir, which puts them prior to the eighth century. Of course as the descendents of the clan around Manannán mac Lir that would make them descendents of the Tuatha Dé Danann, the people of the goddess Danu, who was Demeter to the Greeks and Ceres to the Romans. According to legend they werethe only clan who rejected the missionary work of St. Patrick. In fact now that I think about it they tend to pop up over and over again as standing up to the Church."

"The Church? I assume you mean the Roman Catholic Church?" Spencer looked up at Morgan. That brought them back around to Mother Marion.

"Of course, given the time frame," Mom did sound a little impatient at that question. "Later on that turned into standing up to the Inquisition and the various witch-hunter movements in history. According to legend they would burn any witch-hunters who came into their clan lands at the stake themselves. That's why they were called the 'black' clan; they must have been consorting with the Devil himself. The point was the Black Clan rejected the Roman Catholic Church and continued to worship the Old Gods, right down until the middle of the 1800's when they just disappeared."

"They stood up to the Inquisition?"

"Yes, one of the few groups to do so; some say it was a result of their influence that the Witch-hunts never really gained any ground in any part of Ireland. Only four women convicted of it, compared to hundreds of thousands on the continent."

"Any relation to Grail legend?"

"Well Manannán mac Lir was Bron the Blessed's father. It was two branches of the same family, really."

"That's helpful, thanks Mom." They chatted for a few moments more, and then Spencer rang off.

Morgan looked at him, "The Inquisition?"

Spencer shrugged. "Their behavior would make sense if they were trying to protect someone. And the definition of what the Malleus Maleficarum described as evidence of witchcraft would fit someone with the bloodlines of the Grail. It would also make sense that much of the Inquisition was directed at mainland Europe, most of the legends place Mary Magdalene as landing in France and heading out from there."

"Yeah, but the Inquisition was hundreds if not thousands of years ago. Do not tell me the exact date." There was a tap on the door. Morgan gestured and Rossi let himself in.

"There you are. I thought we were going on an interview today." Rossi said to Spencer.

"Yeah, in just a few minutes; I received some more information on Helena's case."

"The old fashioned way, I hope."

"Yeah, type up some non-supernatural spin for this before you go," Morgan said to Spencer. He looked over at Rossi. "How could an event that happened thousands of years ago lead to Mother Marion locking Helena up in the cellar?"

"Which event?"

"The Inquisition."

Rossi whistled. "Because it's not an event, it's an organization."

Spencer and Morgan looked at each other. "An organization?" Morgan asked.

Rossi sat. "Congregatio pro Doctrina Fidei, The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, formerly Supreme Sacred Congregation of the Holy Office, formerly the Supreme Sacred Congregation of the Roman and Universal Inquisition, formerly the Office of the Grand Inquisitor. Who happens to be a buddy of mine, a guy I went to high school with has done well for himself in the priesthood. He's in town too; we're supposed to have dinner this week."

Morgan shook his head. "Why does your knowing the Grand Inquisitor not surprise me?"

Rossi did not honor that with a response. "The duty proper to the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith is to promote and safeguard the doctrine on the faith and morals throughout the Catholic world. As a result they're in charge of trying heretics, among other things."

"Other things?" Spencer asked.

"Delicta graviora. Crimes committed by a cleric against someone under the age of legal majority. They've been kind of busy lately, I'm glad I don't have Pete's job. Why are we discussing them?"

"Promote and safeguard the doctrine on the faith and morals." Spencer repeated. "So if it was believed that Christ had sex and fathered a child…"

"…they would want that rumor stopped, at the source." Rossi nodded. "I'm beginning to see the connection."

"Why not just kill her?" Morgan asked.

"Because, that would be a sacrilege as well as committing the sin of murder. No, they would want to control it, raise up that child to their beliefs and their bidding and their hiding. But is there any way to prove it?"

"Is there any particular sect that runs that organization?"

"The Dominicans."

Spencer considered a moment, then got up and headed out the door, trailing Morgan and Rossi after him. He headed straight for Garcia's lair. "Garcia, I need you to do something more or less not legal."

"What's that, brainy one?" She turned to ask him.

"Hack the Vatican."

"What?" That got her attention.

Once Morgan and Rossi got there he laid out what he had learned so far that morning. "I want you to go through employment records for the Dominican sect, see if you can run facial recognition on Mother Marion; find out if that's the group she worked for."

"And given that there were explosives involved, which is more or less a terrorist act, I can even make it legal. But I cannot make it fast, go do your interview, let me work."

After typing up the non-supernatural summary per Morgan's request, Spencer and Rossi went upstate to interview another serial killer on death row. It was more or less the usual kind of work for the department. It wasn't until they got back that they walked straight into Emily. "There you are, conference room."

On the big board they found Mother Marion's picture. Only her name was Pauline Dutor and she was in a Dominican habit.

Oh boy.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

**The Apostolic Nunciature of the Holy See**   
**3339 Massachusetts Avenue**   
**Washington DC**

**Rossi**

"Dave! Good to see you!"

Rossi opened his arms for his old friend. Cardinal Pete Lerica was built along the same lines, stocky, not too tall, a little wrinkly and more than a little grey. But behind the glasses was still Ol' Petey, best shortstop on the block. "Pete! You look older."

"And you look ancient. Come on." Pete led them back to the desk in the office he was using while in town. "So is this business or personal?"

"Both." When Pete looked up Rossi sighed, "An unofficial discussion of official matters."

"Oh, that kind of thing; please tell me there aren't children involved."

"No, thank God." Rossi lay a file down on Pete's desk. "Did you hear of that convent bombing upstate of here?"

"Where one of the sisters went crazy during an abuse investigation, took out half the sheriff's department and her entire convent? Yes, I heard of it, why?" Pete picked up the file as he spoke and was looking through what Rossi had decided to share, stopping when he came to the picture of Mother Marion/ Pauline Dutor's Dominican file, "Oh hell."

"You know her?"

Pete sat and sighed. "Look, just between you and me…"

"If no one gets hurt," Rossi replied.

Pete nodded. It was as good as he was going to get and he knew it. "You ever hear the legends of the Holy Grail?"

"The cup or the person?"

"Person, my predecessor was obsessed with finding her. He sorted through the ranks until he found the ones with Special Ops training, worked with them until they couldn't tell if they were coming or going, then divided them into strike teams. He would toss one nun into the mix, just in case they needed a woman's touch."

Wait, his predecessor? "You mean the…?" Rossi almost couldn't believe it.

Paul held a finger to his lips. "Shush, in every other way the man is perfect for his job, brilliant theologian, deeply faithful, all of it. He just has this little obsession. Or at least it was little until the bomb went off. Anyway, he sent strike teams out looking for her. Are you telling me they found her?"

Rossi looked at him steadily. "Do you believe the myth?"

Paul took a deep breath. "No," he answered honestly. "Christ lived, He preached, He died, He was reborn, He ascended. No where along the line did He knock anyone up."

"What if I told you they found someone whose familial history fit the myth."

"Oh good crap," Paul sank into his chair and shuddered. "And Pauline was holding her in the convent, wasn't she?"

"How do you know?"

"It was a good guess. My predecessor was obsessed with the idea that the end of the world might be coming, and if Christ came back the same way He did last time then he wanted to be the one to raise and teach Him so he'd be on our side in whatever war developed. He honestly believes that if he doesn't it will be the Antichrist instead, and then where will we all be? If you got this woman away before they could get a baby, that would explain the bomb. Get to heaven before the end, avoid the rush."

"And she had to take the other Sisters with her?"

"In her mind it would have been an act of compassion, avoid the misery they would suffer at the hands of the Antichrist. I assume you have her someplace safe, but don't tell me, I do not want to know."

Good. Rossi wasn't going to. "You said he sent out teams?"

"Yes, I'll have my office send over the files. This insanity stops now."

Rossi settled back and looked at his friend. "And what are you going to do if we find them?"

Paul looked over. "What do you mean?"

"We already had to deal with one case of Diplomatic Immunity out of the Vatican."

Now it was Paul's turn to settle back. "Look, we have been drowning in negative press over the past few years. We don't need a story that makes the Pope look not only completely off his nut but also accuses him of misusing his position, or his previous position, to harass some woman because she had the right sort of family tree. If it's at all possible, I'd like this to go away quietly."

"I like quietly." Rossi agreed. "Which means you won't get in our way, Even though they technically work for you?"

"Who works for us, a group of priests that have gone rogue, chasing fairy tales? We disavow any connection, full stop."

"And what about your boss?"

"Like I said, magnificent theologian; sometimes doesn't understand how the real world works. I will do my utmost to insulate him from this mess."

And in the meantime cut the strike team loose. "You're a good man, Pete."

"Nah, the Big Guy just gave me good friends."

**Sheriff's Department  
Rural Maryland**

**Emily**

It didn't take much before Rossi was able to get the files on Mother Marion's accomplices. Three Priests from all corners of the globe, all with military training, all completely off the grid. Now she and JJ had to check an assumption. "Deputy Rogers?"

"Agent Prentiss," the older man came over to the counter. "Good to see you again. What can I do for you?"

"We're following up on a lead in the convent bombing. Do you recognize any of these men?" She held out her tablet, showing pictures of eight men, all about Morgan's size, all darker.

Deputy Rogers only needed a moment. "That one," he pointed to one of the pictures. "That's the man who drove away from the Owens's car wreck."

Emily and JJ looked. Father Lumusi Alakija, originally from Ghana, a former member of the military; now a Dominican priest currently assigned to the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith.

Bingo.

**Fairfax Cryobank  
Washington DC**

**Rossi**

Rossi sighed as he had to deal with an officious little… "Yes, Ma'am, I understand that your records are confidential. We have a warrant."

"A warrant? Whatever for?" She asked.

"We believe samples from your facility were used on a woman without her consent."

"The FBI investigates accidents?" She asked.

"Please." He replied.

"All right," she dug around in her flies and pulled out a folder. "Everything was done online. I'm sorry I can't help you more."

"No, this is enough."

**FedEx Express Ship Center**   
**260 Greenbag Rd**   
**Morgantown, WV 26508**

**Morgan**

Nothing like crossing state lines to give the FBI a good excuse. Morgan was glad that the nearest place that would accept a shipment involving liquid nitrogen was actually in West Virginia. Morgan smiled without humor at the store manager. "You recognize any of these guys?"

"Yep," he pointed to the other two Priests. "We don't see a lot of liquid nitrogen tanks come through here. It kind of sticks in your mind."

"Great. Thank you."

**The Ponce de Leon Co-Op**   
**4514 Connecticut Ave NW**   
**Washington DC**   
**#512**

**Spencer**

It was official. It was officially a conspiracy. The Inquisition, of all things, was after her family and they had nearly gotten to her. They killed her parents and found her in the safe place her Grandfather had made for her, and had wanted a baby….

Spencer sighed. Now he just had to tell Helena.

As he predicted, it did not go entirely well.

By the time he was finished explaining she was curled up in the corner of his sofa, clutching her mug of tea like a teddy bear, hoping to keep the boogeyman away. After a long moment she looked up at him.

"I can't do that again." She told him, very quietly.

"You can't do what again?"

She was silent a long moment, "That."

That. It only took him a moment to realize that she meant what Mother Marion did to her. "It won't happen again."

"You don't know that,"

"It won't happen again."

"Spencer…"

"It won't…"

"You don't know that! You can't promise that until they're caught!"

Spencer stopped. For one, she was only growing more upset. And for another, "You're right. At this point I can't give you a one hundred percent guarantee. I can tell you that it's highly unlikely, and that we're doing all we can, but I can't promise. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry." She moved to curl up beside him, to pull his arm around her shoulders. But she hadn't fully relaxed, she was still too tense.

"And I know one thing." He said, trying to find a way to ease that tension. "Even in the unlikely chance that something does happen, it won't change how I feel about you."

"I know." She murmured. "It won't change how I feel about you either. But what if…" She closed her eyes, clearly could not look at the moment.

"What if?"

"What if they really break something this time?"

Oh. That's what had been driving this, perhaps. Well, it was understandable. "Then we'll get it fixed. There isn't anything they can do that you cannot heal from."

"Promise?"

"I do. So don't be afraid, you can't live your life afraid."

She sighed and relaxed against him, "Fair enough."

 


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

**Jerry's Bar  
Washington DC**

**Spencer**

He'd never had a problem with alcohol. It wasn't that he didn't like the taste of it, it wasn't bad, but the effects were markedly different from the opiates and so he never felt like he might transfer his addiction. Still, just in case, he was careful. He reserved alcohol for when he wanted to blend in socially, like having just one glass of wine at Rossi's dinners. Or for times like tonight, when a slight loosening of the tongue would actually help. This was why he had one, only one, very small, scotch in front of him, with Jerry's permission and with his friend watching him like a hawk. "Please tell me that's not a regular thing." Morgan said when he walked up to him.

"Not at all, my first since Rossi's dinner…three months ago," he looked up at his friend as he sat. "How did you find me here?"

"Rossi. You looked off when you left, I got concerned." He nodded at the glass. "I'm guessing that means I'm still good with micro-expressions."

"Something like that," Spencer sighed. He wasn't sure he wanted to talk about it. "I am probably being rather juvenile." He admitted. "I'm fine."

Morgan looked at him a long moment. "Funny, I didn't think you hated Strauss that much." He said evenly. "I mean none of us really like her, but she deserves the same chance you got."

Spencer looked up at him, confused. "I had?"

"Yeah, to go to rehab, get help. I mean just because it took you, what, two months to decide to take it..."

"Morgan, I never went to rehab."

Morgan had ordered his own beer, now he stopped with it halfway to his mouth. "Excuse me?"

"I never went to rehab."

Morgan was staring at him. "We figured you went to one of those rapid detox places, during that week you took off after Hankel. And then you went back on and had to try again after New Orleans."

Spencer shook his head. "The week after Hankel I sat at home staring at the wall and trying to sort it on my own. After New Orleans I finally detoxed in my friend Ethan's bathroom."

"Gideon said he took care of it."

"Gideon had a PTSD attack as he was driving me home. He dropped me off, that was it."

Morgan sat back, clearly in shock. "Well son of a bitch." He finally said, very quietly. "If I had known that, I would have driven you there myself. Damn it kid, I'm sorry."

"It's all right."

"No, it's not." Morgan sighed. "I thought you were going to meetings?"

"I have been. I started going after Jack Vaughn blew that kid's head off in front of me. I thought I failed that one somehow." He held up a finger to stave off criticism. "I realize now that Vaughn was unique. He didn't have any of the same sorts of…"

"Kid," Morgan stopped him. "You started going to meetings…."

"I thought I had failed at that point because I couldn't talk him down, so I thought if I started going to meetings you all might give me a second chance because I was clearly working on it."

"And we didn't see it as a failure and figured you had been going all that time. Is that why you refused any narcotics after that…respiratory thing?"

Respiratory thing. Anthrax. "And after my knee," he nodded. "Partly I didn't want to have to go through getting off again."

"There are ways to make that easier you know."

Spencer knew. That wasn't the point. Surely Morgan knew that wasn't the point. "I didn't think I deserved that." He said to his glass. "I figured I had to earn my spot again."

Morgan looked like he was going to say no, but then he caught something. "Didn't think. Past tense?"

Spencer looked up at him. "You do realize that this is the second time Strauss has gone to dry out this year?"

"I…did not know that." Morgan nodded slowly. "How do…Garcia?"

Spencer nodded. "And she can't say someone tied her to a chair and made her drink until she was addicted. So yes I was that upset that you were all cutting her that much slack and not only not cutting me an inch but then everything with Emily made it that much harder…"

"Until two minutes ago when you found out that we thought you'd had the same deal and were stable about it." Morgan lifted his bottle. "To Gideon. I am going to have a long talk with him if he ever comes around again."

"So am I."

After that drink Morgan looked at him. "Well, we know one thing."

"What's that?"

"Strauss isn't strong enough to be a Grail Knight."

That finally set Spencer laughing. "This is very true." He agreed. "I just wish I had found out about all this before I had this drink."

"Why is that?"

"Because I don't drink. I've never had a problem with alcohol and I don't want to develop one so I drink very rarely and then usually wine anymore. This is my first in four years, eleven months…." He paused a moment. "That I cannot calculate this indicates that I am already too inebriated to go home and seduce Helena."

Morgan started laughing. "That you just said that tells me that you're too inebriated to go home and seduce Helena."

Yep, he was spot on. "But I am no longer going to worry about earning back my place on the team."

"Don't." Morgan told him. "Out of everyone you have the least to worry about in my book."

And that, right there, made everything golden. "In that case I am taking tomorrow off." He said. "Call it a mental health day." Call it a reward for punishing myself all those years. "If there is an emergency call or a missing kid, something like that, call me in but if it's just going to be paperwork all day…."

"Sure. Why not, you have the PTO. But I know you're not going to be that hung over from one drink."

Spencer looked at him square. "Do not laugh."

"Swear."

"I have lived in DC seven years, there is something I have always wanted to do, and I have yet to do it. So tomorrow I am taking Helena and I am going."

"Where?"

Spencer told him.

Morgan laughed.

Spencer didn't care.

Later, as they left, Jerry looked up to heaven. "Thank you sweetheart," he said quietly. "It looks like he's finally going to be all right."

**Colonial Williamsburg  
Williamsburg, VA**

Spencer didn't care if it was hokey or touristy. In the winter, with all the decorations and covered with a frosting of white snow, the reproduction of the historic community was magical. And Helena thoroughly agreed. They tramped through the town with cups of hot cocoa and cider and just marveled at it all.

"It's funny." She said, as they watched one of the artisans pour candles. "All of this is a part of history here. But it was part of my daily life for so long."

"You might study history. End up working here or at one of the museums. Those skills are a living part of history."

"I might."

But the best part took place in one of the taverns. They stopped for lunch, found a table in a quiet back room, had to stop to let a family go by.

They had yet to take down the mistletoe.

Okay, maybe it was just an excuse to kiss her for that long.

I am not going to fight this, he thought as he savored the taste of apples and spice and love, I am not going to rush this but I am also not going to fight this, not any more. I am going to let this happen and I am going to enjoy every moment along the way. Happy New Year.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

**Travelodge  
Akron, OH**

**Spencer**

They had the guy. They built the profile, they found the most likely suspect, and while they didn't know where he was right now they knew exactly where he was supposed to be later that night. Which was why they were back at the motel, tonight was going to be very, very long and today had already been long and yesterday had been long, and given a few hours Hotch told them to go back and rest. There was a time when he would have fought that, when he would have insisted he was fine and kept working at the data, slamming his head into it again and again, not stopping until he passed out on the plane. That time was over; he had nothing to prove anymore. He was taking a few hours to rest just like everyone else. So it was lock the door behind him, bag there, jacket there, shoes off, gun on nightstand and….

Flop

Almost immediately he felt himself being pulled toward sleep. He'd only gotten four hours last night and maybe that the night before, and the desire to drift off was immediate. He rolled just enough to set himself an alarm for two hours, and then let it go, swiftly into that first, Alpha level of sleep…

And immediately ran into a problem.

Given the hours they worked the vast majority of the time when he was away from Helena and dreaming of her he saw her in bed. The very few times he had chanced to see her doing anything she was curled up on the couch in her PJ's, usually working on some bit of knitting and listening to the radio, or perhaps having dessert and watching TV. She always looked safe and warm and very cuddly there, but it was never anything really exciting. Even when he had, for whatever reason, drifted off a bit during the day, usually on the plane, she was either doing class work or in the kitchen, something warm, comfortable, homey.

He did not expect to find himself in the corner of his bathroom.

He certainly did not expect to find the room starting to fill up with steam, or Helena pulling her shirt over her head.

At first he attempted to fight the pull down toward sleep. I knew it, he thought, I knew something like this was going to happen. I should not do this, this is not right. But it was proving impossible, and she had made her feelings on the matter clear, and she had admitted to having peeked in turn.

But he should not do this.

He caught her eyes in the mirror. Did she see him? Or did she just sense someone there? Either way, her hands curled up and back to remove her bra.

He should not do this.

He sat up, went to the bathroom, splashed his face, checked his tablet to see if there were any updates, started downloading some podcasts for the trip home and sat by the window and waited.

Twenty minutes later he tried again. This time she was sitting in her room in her pajamas, combing out her wet curls.

Much better.

**The Ponce de Leon Co-Op**   
**4514 Connecticut Ave NW**   
**Washington DC**   
**#512**

"So, did you get called away?"

Spencer looked over as Helena settled into the pillows next to him. He was home again, their Sunday rituals were over, it was time to settle, a little TV and some tea. She had her hands curled around a mug of cocoa. "Excuse me?"

"The day before you came home," she smiled up at him. "I felt you there. Were you called away?"

"No, I…no," he sighed. "That wasn't right of me. I'm sorry."

"What do you mean, that wasn't right of you?"

"I shouldn't have done that."

"Well, it's not like you could help it. Besides, I really don't mind. I'm not ashamed of how I look."

"I know, it's just...I don't want to push you into something you're not ready for. You need time to rest and heal."

"Spencer." Okay, now she sounded annoyed. "Didn't we have this discussion?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm fine. I'm not afraid. I'm perfectly healthy. Now unless you're hiding a pile of medical gear in your closet there is nothing with you or in there that is going to frighten or harm me."

"There isn't." Spencer told her. "Why are you so annoyed at this?"

"Because," Helena huffed out a breath and marshaled her emotions. "I've been reading your books."

"So?

"Transference, you're the one who's having issues, but you keep transferring them to me. Now I still don't mind waiting, but you're not going to get anywhere if you keep pretending this is all about me."

He opened his mouth to protest and stopped. Took a deep breath and stopped. Took another, "You're right. I am the one who's afraid."

She cocked her head to look at him over her cocoa. "Why?" She asked gently.

"Because for the longest time, this was all I had." He said, the words coming out his mouth just as his brain was sorting them. "Nothing else felt good anymore. Nothing physically felt as good as getting high. This was supposed to be this big impossible thing that was supposed to be the only thing even close to that good. And if it wasn't…I didn't think I would be able to stay clean. That's why I wanted to prove to myself that I could stay clean that long."

"Is that all?"

No, of course it wasn't. Of course this was complicated as all things. "No. I was punishing myself; self-imposed penance." He shook his head. "I lost so much time."

"And now?"

"Now I know life can be good. And now I know there was never any need. I was only carving my own wounds deeper." He considered a long moment. All of a sudden he felt too shy to meet her eyes. Temple priestess, he thought, daughter of the gods. It's a sacred thing, to ask. "Mederi memet?" Please, oh please. I cannot be afraid one moment more.

It was a sacred thing, and she treated it as such. She set her mug aside, and slowly, carefully took his from his unresisting hands. Then she took his hands and drew him to her, slowly, with such care. It was not the first time they kissed, but this time it went on and on, slowly growing deeper until he felt like he was melting into her. He swore that time stopped and the world was closed out and somehow there was sacred space all around them.

She drew him down before the fire and into her arms, kissing him all the while, lips, jaw and neck. He took a chance and began kissing her in the same places, for it was her first as well and it should be good. He was rewarded for his efforts by the smallest of murmurs, a sound of pleasure sweet enough to burrow into his heart and linger there.

When he returned to her lips he felt her fingers under his shirt, warm and gentle as they slipped up and up, coaxing him out of his shirt. He gave that up gladly, feeling the heat of the fire on his back and the warmth of her through the thin shirt she was wearing, all those soft curves and the bare skin of her arms. Already he knew, he could tell, this was going to be that kind of good. It already was. He let her gently push him over onto his back, into some of the big floor pillows he kept there. She must know what she's doing, he thought, she's been taught by an expert. Something about having a legend in your arms, or maybe it's just love.

Her breath was hot, her lips soft as she kissed her way down his body. At first he was confused, but when her kisses crossed his belly, leaving fluttering nerves and muscles in his way, he knew what she was doing. Not fair, he thought, as he ran his fingers through the soft silk of her hair, tugged very gently to get her attention, not fair. She looked up when he tugged her soft hazel eyes filled with an almost unearthly confidence. "You first," Helena said quietly, "or this will not do." With that she turned her attention back to his belt buckle.

Spencer lay back and gave himself up to it. To the heat of the fire and the unfamiliar cool of the air, and the faint embarrassment of how badly his body wanted this. To the feel of silken curls for the first time and soft kisses and the most delicate of licks, and the tension of her body under his hands and somehow he knew she was wondering if she really could do this. And finally to heat, wet heat and movement and pull and deep and…

And the world exploded around him.

* * *

Spencer slowly cracked open one eye. The fireplace was cold, or at least cooling, and daylight was streaming in the windows. They had ended up spending the night in front of the fire, in that pile of pillows, together in every sense of the word. After that first she'd shown him what she thought she would like and then he riffed on it and took it further, and the second time was so much better for being inside her as she fell.

The third time made it forever.

But now she wasn't there. He looked around for his glasses. A priestess was always gone in the morning, he remembered, a representative of the gods, not supposed to be entirely real. For a moment his heart stopped as he thought she might be gone, might have disappeared as if she never was. For a moment he couldn't breathe.

Just as he found his glasses he heard the kitchen door swing.

She came back in his shirt and her underpants, carrying a tray with coffee, pastry and fruit. She set it on the hearth and then slipped back into his arms, slipping out of the shirt as she did so. "Good morning." She murmured.

He pulled her in and kissed her where her neck met her shoulder. "Good morning." He replied. "I almost thought you were gone, a myth."

"Mmm, no my Knight, if you want me…"

"Very much so."

"...then this myth is yours to keep."

 


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

**BAU Headquarters  
Quantico, VA**

**Spencer**

After that night things started shifting, just a little.

For one thing, Spencer started reflecting on how he felt at work, physically. Outside of Hotch he was the only one who always wore a tie. Rossi never wore a tie. Morgan never wore a tie. Gideon had never worn a tie. Granted a number of the other agents wore ties, but they were all in the management track, one way or another, which was someplace he was simply never going to go. About the same time he decided to attempt a beard, or at least to not shave as often. It was an experiment, he was just curious as to the effect, but again, outside of Hotch the other men had some kind of facial hair going on. So again, during a week when they weren't going anywhere as a team, for various reasons, he decided to not shave for a few days, and skipped the tie.

Needless to say, soliciting opinions was not difficult.

Standing around the coffee pot that morning Emily, JJ and Garcia all gave him the studious once over. He knew they, well at least Emily and JJ, had a thorough grounding in professional expectations, and would speak up if they thought it was too casual, but he also trusted them to tell him what looked good, so…. "Well?" He asked when they had looked their fill.

"You know." Emily said, considering, "It actually makes you look older."

"Really?"

"Yeah, the tie thing never worked for you. You always looked like a kid dressing up in your Grandfather's clothes. But, um…not the beard"

"Mmm-hmm," JJ agreed.

"Yeah, lose the tie and the beard." Garcia settled it.

Morgan just chuckled.

And with three positive opinions behind him, that was that.

* * *

It was a few weeks later when Morgan caught him fiddling with a coin over coffee that morning. "What are you doing?" He asked.

"Practicing," Spencer replied, as he made the coin dance over his knuckles.

"Showing off is more like it."

"That too," with that he flipped the coin to Morgan.

Morgan caught it, and instantly noticed that it was heavier and thicker than a coin ought to be. He took a look. Five years…. "Show off." He said, but he was grinning as he tossed it back.

Spencer made it dance again before making it disappear into his pocket. Hell yes, he was showing it off.

**Jerry's Bar  
Washington DC**

"Before I say anything," Jerry said as he put the coffee down in front of Spencer and adjusted the light, "I have one question."

"Oh?"

"You still want it?"

"More days than not," Spencer admitted, "which might always be the case. But I've learned that there are much healthier ways of feeling good inside your skin, so it's a matter of making the right choices."

"Good. In that case I am proud of you. Just tell me what took you so long."

Spencer considered. "I think I had to meet Helena first."

"Ahhhh," Jerry gave him a grin that was almost a leer. "That explains everything."

**The Ponce de Leon Co-Op**   
**4514 Connecticut Ave NW**   
**Washington DC**   
**#512**

It was, however, a justified leer. "I am very proud of you." Helena murmured after they were finished with the first round of….celebration. Yeah, that was it.

"Are you?" He asked as he shifted gently; let her spill off him and onto the mattress. "I have you to thank for it you know."

"Not at all," she insisted, pressing a kiss to the hollow of his throat, a place she particularly seemed to like to kiss. "You did this. And entirely on your own, that's most impressive."

He shook his head. "No. I was hanging on, but I wasn't healed. I know that now. If it wasn't for you I would have made it this far, sure, but sometime in the next week or month I would have put my resignation down on Hotch's desk and found a place where I could teach and get high and no one would care." He kissed her gently, ran a hand over her curves and savored the sensation. "You showed me how to feel good in my skin without that. You helped me heal."

"And you, my Knight, brought me safely back into the world." She tucked in a little closer. "Maybe we've been healing each other."

"Maybe."

* * *

Later that night he dreamed.

Back in the temple, but in a quiet hallway. He could sense the bustle somewhere in the halls behind him, but here all was quiet and a little cool.

There was a tall, utterly familiar figure in front of him. Dark clothes, dirty boots, unshaven, and a cross burned into his forehead. And a face he would never forget. "Tobias."

"You made it." The figure smiled, confirming which personality was in control. "Good for you."

"I did." He knew now. He understood, and it was enough to break your heart. "I wish you could have learned what I have. I wish things had been different. I wish you could have made it as well."

Tobias smiled again, a smile untouched by madness. "Don't worry." He said as one of the priestesses, pretty and buxom with a wealth of blond curls stepped out and took his arm. "Where I am, I have."


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

**The Ponce de Leon Co-Op**   
**4514 Connecticut Ave NW**   
**Washington DC**   
**#512**

**Spencer**

It was all going so well.

Helena had settled into her second semester of online classes. The Bishop had untangled her family's finances, which had included the sale of her parent's house, so she now had a tidy nest egg to cover tuition and help her get a start. They had finally given in and moved her into the master bedroom, converting the sun room back into a sun room. Given that spring was coming on, they had started planting pots and whatnot out on the terrace, had put in a table and a grill. Morgan was trying to teach him how to grill hamburgers.

It was all going so well.

They found out what Llwch had meant by spring. Around when the cherry trees started blooming he had come home from what had been a relatively mellow case, thankfully, to find that she was feeling, to put it delicately, rather amorous. More so than usual. Much more. Not that he was complaining, not at all.

After they finished what they were doing on the sunroom rug he asked her what on earth…

"I can feel them." She said, still a little starry eyed.

"Can feel what?" He asked

"All the trees, they're all…."

"Blooming?" Sexual reproduction in trees, it was the time of year for it.

"Yeah," she looked at him and smiled. "What bees  _do_ , you know. And hummingbirds."

"I rather imagine butterflies might be interesting." Descendent of the Lady of the Lake, he thought. Fae blood, if there really is such a thing.

"Yeah," with that she rolled over and kissed him again.

No, he was not going to complain. It was all going so well.

Too well.

**Travelodge  
Fresno, CA**

"Good morning" Spencer said; another day, another case and another morning coffee talking to Helena over Skype. Thankfully they would be heading home this morning, he rather missed her. "How was book club last night? Did you even go?"

"I did. We started reading  _"The Jungle"_. They warned me that I might not eat for a while."

"You might not. How is Sylvia?"

"Quite well, she said to say hello. We weren't at her place last night. We were down at Mrs. Delgado's. She broke her toe; now she's practically a shut-in for the next few weeks. She can't even make it to mass. She said her priest has been bringing her communion every morning."

Alarm bells went off in the back of his head. "Tell her she has my sympathy." He chatted for a few more moments then rang off. He immediately called Rossi. "If someone is ill or shut-in, do Priests bring them communion?"

"Well communion is sent over." Rossi replied. "But usually a Sister or Deacon or a Eucharistic Minister does it, Priests tend to be too busy. Why?"

He didn't have time to answer. "Hang on." He rang off and called Garcia. "Do me a favor. Get Anderson over to my place, please, and have him sit across from my front door until I get there."

"You think there's going to be trouble?" She asked, even as he heard her moving.

"I think so."

**The Ponce de Leon Co-Op**   
**4514 Connecticut Ave NW**   
**Washington DC**   
**#512**

They were too late, of course.

By the time they landed the unit had taped off the scene, forensics was going over everything, and someone was interviewing Mrs. Timmons. "I saw a priest knocking." She said. "And then I went inside. I didn't even know Helena was Catholic."

Spencer was sitting in his kitchen, the one room they deemed not involved, watching everyone work through the doors, trying not to think. Morgan found him there. "You know you're off this case." The older man told him.

"I know."

"We're going to find her."

Spencer nodded.

"Garcia is tracking nitrogen shipping tanks…."

"That's not going to help." Spencer told him.

"Why not?"

"There are three men. They don't need to send out for samples."

Morgan sagged. "Do you think they will?"

That was a professional question, Spencer thought. "Not directly. They're doing this because they believe it's important for their faith. To that end they wouldn't want to violate their vows of chastity."

"Not…directly."

"I think they will indirectly." Spencer sighed. "It would be a lot easier to smuggle an infant into Rome."

Morgan shook his head. "We're going to find her."

* * *

After they were gone and his house was his again Spencer wandered out onto the terrace to look at the moon. It was full, of course, and the height of spring. Given that he went on the grocery runs, took the trash down, it wasn't hard to track. They probably knew where she was all along, he thought, maybe they tracked the team or the funds the Bishop sent. Garcia is going to be so pissed if she wasn't able to hide her. They probably knew where she was all along and waited so our guard would be down when she was the most fertile…

I am a Knight who just failed in his duty is what I am.

He fell back onto the end of the chaise lounge and buried his head in his hands. They had been playing at romantic domesticity for months, pretending like they were just a more-or-less normal twenty-first century couple. But they weren't, and the full weight of what had happened just fell on him.

He lost the Grail.

He personally lost the Holy Grail to the Enemy.

He sat there lambasting himself for an entire minute and then he took a deep breath and shook it off. "Okay." He said to no one in particular. "The rest of the team, hell the entire FBI, is working at this from the mundane aspect. How can I look at this…the other way? If we're half into myth and legend, if part of her isn't even human, how can I use that to our advantage? Is there anyone or anything out there with any ideas?"

I am talking to nothing, he thought. I may well have lost it completely.

Except…there was this rustling.

The apple tree, the tree grown from the seed he had saved, the one that had been her constant companion for all those years, had been moved to the terrace with the coming of the spring, and was now crowned with a froth of pink and white blossoms that smelled impossibly sweet. It had grown in a corner of the kitchen, unnatural growth, growth he had tried pointedly to ignore. Now it was four feet tall and looked to be a good two years old although it was six months at best. Unnatural growth spurred by the presence of one who's DNA was not quite what you might think; unnatural because it loved her.

As Spencer watched one tip of one twig began to swell. It grew before his eyes, rounding and filling and turning a soft rose. After a moment, no more he reached out a hand and an apple, pink and perfect dropped neatly into his palm.

Not nothing, he thought. Not nothing. All the stories were real after all.

Without a moment's hesitation, he took a bite.


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34**

**Somewhere else**

**Spencer**

As soon as the sweet juice hit the back of his throat he was there. Instantly. He was standing wherever they were holding Helena. He didn't have to relax or try to slip closer to sleep, which was good because there was no way he could, not at all. And unlike the nights where he dreamed of her this was sharp and perfectly clear.

She was in a basement somewhere, some kind of storeroom. There were piles of boxes in the dim corners, large shapes he kept wanting to recognize but couldn't, shadows against the cracked, concrete walls. Helena was in the center, lying on some kind of table, her arms cuffed to a chain that went under the table, simple but effective. They had brought in strong work lights which were pointed straight at her; a small generator was humming in the other room. At the moment she seemed all right, only clearly terrified.

He looked around the room. There has to be something, he thought, something to identify this place. What is all this anyway? But it was dark and the shapes did not want to resolve at all.

Two men were in the corner, talking in a language Spencer did not understand. One was unpacking something while the other was arguing with him, then the first cut him off, an abrupt negation, after which the second went about making his case more forcefully. Spencer looked more closely, saw what was being unpacked, what was going on that tray, and felt himself start to panic. It was just what he was afraid of, what they were both so afraid of. He had to find her. He had to stop this, there had to be something….

The man with the tray turned and moved to the table where Helena was pinned. He would forever admire her for what happened next. As frightened as she was, as helpless as she was, she clearly was not going without a fight. As soon as he was at just the right distance she gave him a vicious kick that send him sprawling, knocking down the tray, one of the work lights, a pile of boxes and detritus. "You stupid little whore!" He yelled at her, following it with a string of curses. But she just turned her head and refused to listen at all.

It was in the pile that fell, the papers that sifted out, that Spencer found exactly what he was looking for.

**The Ponce de Leon Co-Op**   
**4514 Connecticut Ave NW**   
**Washington DC**   
**#512**

With that realization he snapped back into his own body. He was still standing on his terrace, an apple missing a bite in his hand. Without a word he reached over and stroked a leaf on the tree, as a thank you.

He swore he saw it shudder in reply.

Then he was pulling out his phone and hitting speed dial. "Look, I know I'm not supposed to be on the case and there's no way to explain this to Hotch, but…"

**Springfield State Hospital  
Sykesville MD**

Spencer turned at the sound of a car. "Please tell me you are not doing what I think you're doing." Morgan said after he parked and got out.

Spencer was standing beside an SUV, not his own. "What do you think I'm doing?" What he was doing was getting into his vest, and getting ready to go in.

"Going in there alone, that's what."

"I'm not. I have back up."

"You do not have back up."

"Oh really?" Asked a voice from the back of the SUV. The door slammed and Jerry MacGrudder came around the car, in his own vest from his DC Metro days and carrying a shotgun of questionable length. "What the hell am I, chopped liver? I'm retired, not dead."

Morgan just gaped at him a moment, then he turned back to Spencer. "How the hell do you know she's even in there?"

"You don't want to know the answer to that." Spencer replied.

"Try me."

The younger man sighed. "Remember that fourth bloodline, the one that we really didn't talk about?"

"Yeah."

"An enchanted apple tree told me."

Morgan just shook his head a long moment. "You're right; I did not want to know that." It was his turn to sigh. "You really think they're in there?"

"And the longer we stand here the greater the chance that she's going to be raped before we can find her, yes." The thought was turning Spencer's stomach in to tight knots. Just a few minutes more, just a few.

Morgan gave up. "Let me get my vest."

* * *

It was a lot of space to cover, and not nearly enough time or people. But he knew they were heading for the cellar; that saved them at least something.

Near what looked to be the head of the cellar stairs they found the third man. Father Lumusi Alakija looked far too comfortable with the assault rifle he was holding, far too much like the solder he had been before he became a priest. But he clearly wasn't really expecting company and so Jerry was able to get up behind him and get the muzzle of his shotgun in good and close. "Police, asshole, drop it now." The gun went down with a clatter; Morgan put his Glock away in favor of it. "There still ain't no statute of limitations on murder, is there?"

"Nope," Morgan replied as Spencer got the cuffs on the priest and then cuffed him to a handy length of pipe.

"Good. Father Lumusi Alakija, you're under the arrest for the murder of Samuel and Maria Owens." Jerry sounded viciously pleased with himself. He looked at the other two. "Go get the girl, I'll call it in."

Alakija looked directly at Spencer. "You are making a mistake…Knight." He told him in a voice deep with sorrow. "She will damn us all and bring judgment upon the earth. For your soul I will pray."

It chilled Spencer, the look in the priest's eye, the weary resignation in his voice. All of a sudden he knew; he  _knew_  exactly what was going to happen. He turned to tell Morgan but Helena's scream echoed up the stairwell. "Call an ambulance." He said to Jerry before nodding to Morgan. "Come on."

They leapfrogged it down the stairs and down a long, dark, decaying hallway. They were careful, covering every shadow, doing it all by the book, but Spencer knew exactly where they were going. The large, old storeroom was at the end of the hall. They backed to the sides of the door, counted three, and then turned in, Morgan slightly ahead. "FBI! Hands in the air!" He thundered out.

One man was standing at the head of the table, looking at them, frozen in place. The other, the one who had been kicked, was down at the other end, where he had been standing practically between Helena's legs, looking at them over his shoulder. And he was wearing gloves and she was twisting on the table in agony. Neither man moved; they just stood there a long moment. "Don't do it." Spencer pleaded with them, quietly.

But it was inevitable. There were no bombs here. There was only one way for them to avoid Judgment. They slowly looked at each other, and one of them murmured something as they turned and pointed the guns they were holding at the two agents.

There was nothing he could do. Like Philip Dowd. Like Chloe Donaghy. Like Tobias. There was no choice.

A half a second after Morgan, he fired.

It was all over.


	35. Chapter 35

**Epilogue**

**Washington Medical Center  
Washington DC**

**Spencer**

"So, how is she?" Morgan asked.

It had been an unholy mess. There was going to be a stack of paperwork waiting for them at the BAU. Hotch was going to Have A Long Talk with them both. But it was worth it. The hit team was stopped. And the one man they captured had already confessed to the crime. And the important thing… "She's going to be fine." Spencer told him. They were in a hallway in the hospital. They were keeping Helena overnight for observation, just for safety's sake. "A few lacerations…cuts…internally, a lot of bruising. Those two didn't have any real medical training; they didn't know what they were doing. It's painful but nothing that won't heal completely in a few weeks. They just want to be sure she's not starting an infection before they let her go."

"So we got there before…"

"They impregnated her? Just, there was a cup on the tray."

"Is that what that was?" Morgan shuddered. "I'm glad the, uh, apple tree told you."

"So am I. Granted that means we may get visits from that side of her family now."

"Do I want to know?"

Spencer smiled. "No. Trust me."

"So other than that what happens now?" Morgan asked.

"Well, Garcia has a number of data taps in place. If they try to come after her again we'll have advancing warning and can tell them to knock it off."

"Tell them?"

Spencer nodded. "I've been reading Father Paul's journals, I finally cracked the code. They had passed along an oral history, father to son-in-law, for nearly two thousand years. He was the first to write it all down. For most of history they ran and hid from the church and the various factions that did its dirty work."

"Most?"

"The only ones who ever stood up to the Church were Galahad and Percival. They had this odd idea that the Grail was a woman who deserved freedom and love and peace at last." Spencer looked at the quiet, sleeping figure in the bed behind him and smiled. "We all deserve that, I think."

"I can get with that. So we're making a stand then?"

"Yes, Helena wants to finish college, do living history work. And I'm not leaving the BAU to go into hiding." Spencer looked back. He was standing a little straighter these days, his feet set a little more centered upon the earth. I know what I am now, he thought, I know why I'm here. "Mother always said a Grail Knight had to be both chivalrous and courageous. I intend to be." For love, he thought, for love.

Morgan just grinned. "Amen."

 


End file.
